


The Five Day Flu

by skerb



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Backrubs, Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Comfort, Couch Cuddles, Dirty Thoughts, Emotionally Compromised, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Impaired Judgement, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, No Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Sexual Frustration, Sickfic, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Sans doesn't often feel at 100%. Most days he's like an old cell phone - fully charged and only maxes out at 42%. The past couple of days have been off for him, but when he feels flu-like symptoms, he tries to sleep it off the best he's able to. When he wakes up, it's pronounced and nearly debilitating. It's not like any illness Sans has had before.No sex. No touching himself - it'll only make it worse. He doesn't want to get that desperate, but he's holding on by his fingertips and when Grillby shows up, he doesn't know if that's his doom or his salvation.(A fuckless heatfic with Sans' family and boyfriend taking care of him. Rated Explicit for sexual themes & snapshot flashbacks of sexual situations)
Relationships: Grillby/Sans (Undertale), Sansby
Comments: 142
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter 1

Sans came to the conclusion that he doesn’t like seasons.

Sure, they’re pretty, but autumn was too hot during the day and too cold in the evenings. Humans were hilarious and nicknamed the supposedly abnormal heatwave after one of their species types and that it was their kind of summer.

The idiom was kind of lost on Sans ever since he and some buddies went to the zoo and asked why there were humans in cages. Turned out those were monkeys and gorillas, not subsets of humans, but everyone had a good laugh. After all, it was now a common mistake to refer to any four-limbed semi-furry being with a humanoid face as a human, so it never really got old. Humans make the best outlandish expressions when Sans ‘forgets’, too. It’s hilarious.

But the weather. Sans wasn’t a fan. Papyrus told him he could no longer pass as ‘tolerable’ when it came to wandering around. Showers were to be at least a thrice-a-week endeavour complete with a post-bathing sniff test. If Frisk wrinkled their nose, back into the bathroom Sans would have to go.

It was too hot, and to top it off it was too humid, too, which meant sweat. On the whole, Sans had simmered down when it came to the evenings, but he always found himself staring up above at the wide open field of dark blue stretched beyond forever, scattered with little pips of light.

And then it’d get cold, like the surface had no clue how to regulate temperatures. He sure didn’t, or at least it was becoming a problem.

Sans tore his eyes away from the litter of stars above when a flash of red and blue flickered on the peripheral of his vision. He’d gotten into the habit of shuffling his way around the streets at night as a reprieve from the constant dry ache the sun would subject them all to, but he grew tired and ornery at being approached on his walks by the local authorities.

Apparently ‘curfew’ was a thing now that monsters roamed the streets at night, though the same could be said for daytime too. At least Sans had the decency to look appropriately harmless as he strolled by empty shops and abandoned bus shelters. He was only permitted so long on the streets before someone would pull over and ask if there was trouble. Somehow, even without watching them, they made him feel uneasy.

Not wanting to stir up the local population after so long, Sans made it a point to come home by ten o’clock every evening to avoid mishaps.

Tonight though? It was still relatively late. Something was stuck at the back of his mind, something that generally happened from time to time if he really let himself think long and hard about it. Everyone was free. Everyone was safe. Sans could drown hours in sunlight and spend the same amount of time drinking in the song of the night even when the sun had set.

The bugs were a new thing and he was still not used to them at all - mainly since flies tended to crash-land into his eye socket like there was food waiting for them inside. Papyrus helps out by carrying around a can of compressed air to save him. It’s great.

He’s never seen his brother look so happy. Frisk hangs around him constantly, their eyes bright and accepting, and… Sans doesn’t know how to feel about that. Happy?

Yeah… happy. Certainly calmer. Certainly fewer nightmares than he’d ever dealt with under ground. He can still feel the residual magic under his feet, can still hear the whisper of the CORE powering their tiny nation under the mountain. For some, the Underground is still their home. A lot of monsters were afraid to leave, saying the sky was too ‘open’.

Which is fair, considering that humans have a penchant for disliking cramped quarters.

Papyrus is the happiest Sans has ever seen him in all his life, and it makes his soul feel light with intense relief. He doesn’t have to be alone anymore. For as long as they’ve been above ground, his brother has no shortage of people to talk to and engage with and hell, even become friends with.

And despite the ups and downs of adjusting to the culture clash of both races, Sans feels better rested than he’s been in years, well fed, more sociable and even _healthier._ Which is a damned miracle as far as chronic depression goes. He can look at it and blink all he wants, but the feeling wasn’t going away, and sometimes that scared him.

He rounds the corner just out of the law’s view, taking a trip through the void to dodge confrontation. Some days he feels like talking will get him into trouble, and he’s a little more irritable lately, either with the weather or just himself in general, Sans doesn’t know. Nor does he care, really.

He flops onto his bed in the comfort of their home, his eye lights pinpoints in the darkness as he stares up to the skylight Papyrus insisted on installing. He doesn’t blame him, Papyrus still gets excited to be greeted by the sun every morning, and it warms his heart that where they are now makes his brother so happy.

Sans, however, is a guy who’s used to a fair amount of darkness. Typically when he needs his day brightened, he visits his boyfriend, who comes up to glare at the clouds and constantly carries an umbrella around. Grillby doesn’t like how unpredictable the weather is topside. He doesn’t complain much, but Sans has been around the fire monster long enough to figure out just how uncomfortable Grillby is. He watches the weather channel and makes comments that it seems too much like a gamble when it’s only a five-percent chance of precipitation between noon and two in the afternoon.

It’s been awhile. Sans misses him, which is dumb since they both live in town on the surface now. Grillby lives close to the fire hall, which is funny because there’s more water there than by the lake. Grillby didn’t take the news well, but he seemed to understand the human legislation behind it.

The heat kicked on from the baseboard vent, producing a low hum for background noise as Sans drifted off, thinking about the fire monster. Maybe he’d go visit him, pester him with a few good jokes. Maybe he’d invite Grillby over so they can look at the moon again, or try to get a good look at Jupiter if it was clear enough.

A dense heat wraps around his waist like Grillby does when he wants to hold him, and Sans curls into a ball and pulls the blanket around him for good measure. When he finally slips into slumber, he dreams of stars like a mobile suspended above him, tiny points of fire in his subconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: evening
> 
> I got an idea: what if for Sans' first heat, he butched it out?  
> Enjoy this little intro while I get the ball rolling. I have 11k written up already - I'm just stupidly impatient to share!!
> 
> Also, post-paci because I'm soft for the good ending. :D
> 
> The seasonal heatwave Sans refers to in narration is Indian summer: a period of unseasonably warm, dry weather that sometimes occurs in autumn in Northern America and other temperate regions of the world during late September to November.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans feels a little under the weather and misses his turn to take Frisk to school. Sans figures that he's caught a bug. His whole body aches and he's flushed, so he takes a bath... and somehow feels worse.

He doesn’t sleep in for any longer than what the bright glaring hate orb allows. Sans cracks open an eye too early for his tastes, and the morning sun has already begun its job roasting him from the skylight. The hoodie’s probably overkill now, so Sans takes stock of where he is, blearily looking around as he pulls it away from his body.

It’s another warm one. Papyrus always blasts the heat when the kid’s over. His normally chilly toes flare up, prickling and uncomfortable. There’s dog hair in his bed again, probably in his throat since it feels tight and achy like he’s allergic. Yips echo from downstairs and his brother’s creatively-dodgy expletives let him know where they are. He thinks he hears the kid laughing.

They’re good sounds.

So why does he feel like shit?

Sans huffs a sigh and swipes over his neck to catch the bead of sweat that trickles down his throat. His head’s throbbing and he hates to admit it, but Papyrus is probably right; wandering outside in the chill at night is a good way to get sick.

He rolls over onto his chest and buries his face into his pillow, humid with sweat and drool. He groans into it, not wanting to get up but it’ll be only minutes until Papyrus comes up to hoist him out of bed.

In all honesty, he doesn’t feel good. He could do with about four more hours of sleep and probably three cups of coffee, minimum. His body doesn’t seem to get the memo that it’s totally ok to chill out now, but no. He’s caught a bug or something. So much for seeing Grillby like he had wanted to.

Sans does a half-hearted attempt at getting out of bed and gets as far as sliding one foot off the mattress. There’s a slight tension in his spine like he slept at an odd angle, so he pivots his hips to stretch.

No go. Sans hisses out when his lower back snaps with protest and he curls up again.

It’s another lazy day. Sans leaves his hoodie abandoned beside him until he has the courage to get up and rests a hand on the small of his back. The bone is hot to the touch, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t really feel like anything, just tight like he sprained something. Rubbing over his face with his free hand, Sans heaves a sigh and slowly crawls off the bed to greet the day.

Even though his room is bathed in sunlight, downstairs is a vivid portrait of sunshine and rainbows. Sans’ grin comes naturally despite how his head pounds when the kid calls up to him, and Sans pauses to lean on the railing and wave at them.

The configuration of their house is exactly the same. When they moved to the surface, Papyrus had fit everything in their home from underground, but there were a few odds and ends they still had to deal with. Sometimes the shower gets cold when they run the taps in the kitchen, or the electricity just stops when they use the microwave and toaster at the same time. But the railing is the same, their rooms are in the exact same configuration, and they even have a full bathroom for their human visitors.

It’s Grillby’s less favourite room; he uses his own as an extra storage room.

Right down to the raised sink, everything is the same, or at least  _ made _ to look as such. It feels cosy. It feels like home. Sans added his own personal touch the first night topside by kicking a sock to its place and revelling in the aggravated sigh his brother made the following morning.

Papyrus pokes his head out from the kitchen, something sticky and bubbling coming from a nearly over-spilled pot in his hands. He smiles brightly up at Sans, and Sans waves placidly, still half-slumped and barely awake.

“You’re going to be late, you know!” Papyrus chirps eagerly, just in case Sans somehow forgot that it’s his turn to take the kid to school today. “Breakfast has been on for the past hour and a half!! Hurry down before it cools!” Then he turns back into the kitchen, a small trail of smoke curling up from the top of the doorway.

Sans pushes himself off the railing and holds his lower spine as he manoeuvres the stairs. His back protests, and there’s a disjointed feeling in his knees like they’re going to buckle if he doesn’t keep an eye on where he’s going.

Frisk meets him at the bottom, offering the small white dog up for its morning scritches.

“Mornin’, sport,” Sans mumbles somewhere between a yawn and a greeting. He passes his fingers absently through their short locks, then goes to pat the dog’s head. “Ready for school?”

They nod, a bright eagerness in their eyes. Somehow, Sans doesn’t feel as energised, or at least not his usual, which is a shame since Frisk seems really excited. They really brightened up after getting everyone above ground.

“Nice,” Sans adds, unashamed to scratch under his shirt at his hip. Bad luck, as it suddenly prickles like it had been asleep and he finally regained feeling. He stops and can’t repress a flinch. Again, it didn’t hurt, but the sensation was sudden like he had disturbed a bruise. Must be the bug. “I wouldn’t get close. I think I’m coming down with something.”

Frisk wrinkles their nose but huffs out a sigh anyway. They tell Sans that it’s ok if he can’t take them, Papyrus can, and that he should take a hot bath since that’s what boils out a fever. Then Frisk turns and carries the dog into the kitchen with them. After a few seconds, Papyrus yelps a few octaves higher than normally and the dog runs triumphantly from the doorway in a flurry of white hair, a large bone in its mouth.

Sans grins to himself. Some things never change.

No nightmares. No worries. The kid is good on their promise not to alter anything. They seem adamant on moving on and for the longest time, Sans has been so preoccupied by normal life that he finds that he actually believes them.

It’s almost time that Frisk goes to school. They had spent the night in amiable silence, and now listens to Papyrus recount all his exciting adventures in the local flea market. Sans sneaks into the kitchen as quietly as he can, slipping into an unoccupied chair to have his oatmeal in peace before he’s got to leave. He’s not talkative now, mostly listening to the kid and Papyrus go back and forth. Something about gymnastics and dodgeball.

He’s dozing where he sits. Sans doesn’t realise it until he’s caught nodding off a second time, and Frisk gives him an avid poke in the shoulder. Their finger feels too soft sometimes, but it’s like Sans’ bones flinch with every movement. He’s slow, deliberate. He grimaces.

“Sorry, kid. I guess I should have that nap.”

Bath, they correct a little sourly. They’re a little disappointed, but they tend to understand more than most kids their age.

“Right,” he amends. “Bath, then nap.”

“A nap already!! You’ve only just woken up! Have you no shame?” Papyrus looks as close to gnashing his teeth as he always is. He serves up another over-stirred sticky mash of oatmeal. Sans doesn’t have much of an appetite, but he ate a decent amount of the cold cement under the fresh helping. “Though you  _ do _ look quite terrible!”

He says it with such stalwart positivity that Sans can’t help but laugh. It suddenly surges between his ribs, halfway between a cough and a gasp for breath.

“Staying out at all hours of the night!! I’ll never understand your midnight wanderlust.”

Sans cracks a grin and slouches back against his chair. It’s one of the full-backed ones, so there’s no airflow. It’s supposed to look ‘modern’ and ‘chic’, but Sans feels the first onsets of fever coming on and can’t appreciate good interior design right now.

“Ah, c’mon. Are you saying you don’t want me moonlighting anymore?”

“As what, I will never know, nor do I care to. - Though I am serious, Sans. Perhaps it is prudent that you remain at home. You look  _ dreadful.” _

Dreadful. Ah, the lengths Papyrus will go to tell Sans he looks like shit, like he doesn’t have eyes of his own. Sans knows it’s only his brother’s way of expressing his worry, so he sighs, resigned.

“Yeah. My head kinda hurts. Magic’s feeling rusty. I think I’m gonna take a shower like the kid suggested after this and take a nap.”

Bath, they repeat, almost drawing out the word. Sans sends Frisk a wink, though it’s a bit wearier than normal. Papyrus can probably see that he doesn’t feel his usual sixty-percent, which is probably why he urges Frisk to finish their breakfast so they’re not late for school.

Sans’ head throbs. It’s like it’s beating a tattoo of punishment for his poor decisions lately. He wonders if he should even bother with the coffee if he’s going back to bed anyway. Just as soon as he finishes breakfast. Then he’ll go.

Sans snaps out of another doze when Papyrus’ hand thumps down on his shoulder. Frisk is gone, so it must’ve been awhile, and Sans feels the tail end of a snore before he was so rudely awakened. He can’t blame Papyrus, who resorts with astounding clarity that bedrooms are for sleeping and dining rooms are for eating and kitchens are for… well, impromptu naps, in Sans’ case.

No, Papyrus hides his worry, which only makes Sans feel worse, because Papyrus isn’t very good at schooling his expression when he’s upset. Sans has been playing the honesty game lately, which means fewer lies and a lot of resigned sighs. He’s not used to giving in so quickly, but with Papyrus looking that way… he can’t fight the kicked puppy look for long. Papyrus is too much of a master cheat.

“Bath,” Sans mumbles, half-asleep. “Then nap.”

His brother sighs, a short but sharp thing that makes Sans feel guilty all the more. Papyrus props a couple of dry pieces of toast to cool on a plate and Sans half-heartedly jams one into his face for sustenance. See? He’s taking care of himself and everything. He’s not even putting up his usual fights or insisting that he’s fine. This is leagues’ worth of character development in a short episode.

Sans laughs to himself, but it must sound delirious since Papyrus sends him another pointed look. Sans then grimaces, makes a point to finish what breakfast he can stomach, and lets Papyrus mother him up the stairs to the bathroom. Then, after being thrown a fresh towel, his brother runs the tap into the tub to fill it in case Sans somehow forgot how to work his own hands.

“I’m not gonna drown,” Sans protests under his breath as Papyrus tests the water with his hand.

“That wasn’t a worry I had until recently, but thank you for the vote of confidence!!”

Sans winces. He supposes he deserves that to some extent, but he shrugs it off and negligibly shimmies out of his clothes anyway as he approaches the filling bathtub. Since he’s a heathen, Sans lets the clothes drop where he stands and gets into the tub.

It’s warm. It’s not as warm as Grillby, whom Sans realises he misses more than what’s probably normal for him. They should really get together soon. Sans misses his company and how the fire monster will hang out with him, even if the only thing they do is lounge around on the couch while Grillby reads. Sans tucks in beside him, because Grillby’s the best space heater ever, and watches bad human infomercials with a spare laugh or two.

“Better?” Papyrus asks with a pointed look to Sans’ t-shirt on the floor, and Sans sinks back into the water, propped up by the heated porcelain. He nods and thinks Papyrus’ smile is bright enough to light the world.

“Thanks,” Sans mumbles, nothing short of exhaustion in his voice.

“No falling asleep!”

“In the tub?” Sans mock-protests, shooting his brother a lazy grin. Then he winces, another bruise-like sensation spreading up his hip again. “I’d think of something funny to say, but I’m out of ideas.”

Papyrus sighs with the exasperation of a ruined politician. “Finally! I had prayed that one day you’d run out of terrible jokes, and apparently finally that day is today.” Papyrus pauses as though considering him, and Sans just gazes back, all drowsy eyes and dropped guard. “Promise you won’t fall asleep!”

Sans shrugs, the universal gesture for ‘whatever’, but there’s a slight grin to his face to show he means no foul. Papyrus just shakes his head, because if Sans wasn’t aggravating on some level, he’d be extremely worried. Sans just gives a splashy wave, then perks up.

Papyrus turns with the slosh of water to find Sans grinning splendidly, which only means one thing-

“I’m gonna call this day a wash,” he says, then barks out a laugh when Papyrus closes the door hard enough to make the picture frame on the wall rattle.

He knows Papyrus acts out for his benefit, but Sans actually did need alone time to assess some things. Mostly, the spore of bruises that he definitely feels on his hip.

Sans peers down into the water, clear and unclouded by soap. His bones look perfectly fine, save for looking flushed with the heat of the water. His back feels out of whack, in different spots all down his spine, and his joints ache, even between his fingers. Experimentally, he flexes them for good measure. The measure is still a dull throb.

He must’ve sprained something. Either that, or the bug attached to his magic was going to make for a hell of a ride. If the past is anything to go by, he doesn’t expect to get better soon but the most he can do when he’s like this is chill out, rest up at home and play nice when Papyrus gets back to help him.

He’s not sure whether or not he feels better after the bath, but he’s proud of the fact that he didn’t fall asleep during it. His bones feel sleek and warm when he passes cool water over them, a half-hearted attempt to rinse away the sweat. When he stands, it’s like he can feel every droplet, and he’s not sure if he particularly likes the sensation.

After towelling off, Sans makes his way back to his room. It’s only been about forty minutes since he had first gotten into the tub, and Papyrus has probably gone to work after dropping the kid off at school. Sans usually crashes around the three-hour mark when his brother leaves the house, but he’s exhausted. The thought of going downstairs to lull himself to sleep with cheesy soap operas is too much effort.

He lays out on his bed, bareboned and easy. It’s cooler that way, and he can get dressed when he wakes up. Sans’ whole body protests when he sprawls out, squinting up at the bright light of the skylight. A little annoyed with it, Sans manipulates the towel with his magic and sends it up to cover the window, fixing it in place with some masking tape from his overburdened dresser.

The light still shines through, casting a dull blue haze over the room from the colour, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe now the room won’t feel like it’s ninety degrees as he tries to drift away.

Unlike any other snooze he’s taken, Sans wakes up more than once. The first time is when he detects someone on their porch, but the mailbox creaks and the presence disappears. Sans barely cracks his eyes open the second time, drifting between sleep and achiness like he’d never felt before. His blanket feels too heavy. His sheets are too cool. There’s simultaneously too much and not enough light.

And the house is empty, save for the soft sounds of electricity in the walls, and the hum of the heater.

It’s warm. It’s autumn, which means it’s both warm and cool, and Sans resumes his thinking from the previous day.

He doesn’t like seasons.

It feels like the time between his sleeping spells is getting shorter and shorter, until he blinks awake, slow and groggy with his head beating like his soul. His room’s a little darker, like the sun is finished having its way with the world and has gone on to other timezones. His room is toasty like an oven, and when he barely lifts his head from his pillow, the cool air gently comes in from his open doorway.

There’s a shape there. Probably Papyrus. Most likely him, at any rate. His voice is gentle when he asks Sans how he’s feeling, because he still looks bad - hell, even worse than before. Sans doesn’t doubt it. He feels it. He wearily nods to Papyrus’ observance that he should rest, and that he’ll bring some soup up for him if he feels well enough to eat.

Sans’ throat is tight like he’s either caught a cold or he’s been restraining himself from coughing. He’s not sure how that works if he’s been sleeping the entire time, but his head aches like he hasn’t caught one wink the entire time Papyrus was gone. He curls up a little, because he’s a little chilly now, and the hip he’s leaning on blossoms with pain. He huffs a small breath to ease the ache and turns his body a little more. He must’ve slept on it funny.

When Papyrus comes back with the promised food, Sans hasn’t moved much. Papyrus helps him to sit up, which makes Sans’ joints hurt like a bitch to the point where he can’t keep himself from hissing out a breath when it feels like too much. But his brother is understanding and even holds the bowl for him as Sans scoops the broth into his mouth, eating as much as he can with a handful of crackers to keep it settled.

Papyrus eventually takes notice of the towel on the ceiling, covering the skylight. While he looks a little unimpressed, he sighs and murmurs in his best older brother voice, “I’ll see to getting some blackout curtains tomorrow.”

Sans just croaks out a dry “thanks”, because apparently his voice chooses that moment to fail him. He clears his throat and tries again, this time adding “love ya” for good measure.

Papyrus must know how bad he feels if he’s holding off on the lectures, which is nice since Sans’ head has taken to beating like a drum. He must worry, which fills Sans with a sting of guilt. It briefly passes when Papyrus pats him on the head, the gentleness bleeding out of him when Sans is ill.

Like they’re kids, Papyrus leaves the door open a crack so the warm yellow light pours into his bedroom. It’s not as intense as the sun, but it’s a golden reassurance that reminds Sans of both Grillby and his brother’s magic. In its own way, it’s soothing and envelops him like a cocoon of comfort. Being taken care of without a single complaint is really something else. Sans feels lucky to have such a good brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2
> 
> I'm happy for the reception of this so far!! I didn't realise how many people were excited for this 👀💦💦 Thank you so much for your continued support ♥


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans comes to a stunning revelation. Grillby arrives.

Sans wakes the following morning, too early for Papyrus to even be up. He doesn’t move, because that means addressing the fact that it’s been yet another night reeling through interrupted sleep.

Sans stares across the room, a little dazed. He thinks he has a fever. It’s also quite possible that he’s pinched something in his back, and it complains with every breath he takes. The molten heat at the base of his spine throbs, and he can’t put his finger on why. His ribs creak on a molecular level and Sans is flushed between his joints like he’s worked up.

But he isn’t. He just woke up. He’s just wading through weary, fatigued thoughts. Little wants drift in and out like fading stars in his mind’s eye, of how much he wants to sleep this ache off, or how much he wants to curl up in a familiar bed, warm and lush-

Well, that’s different.

Sans’ brain attempts a reboot then tries again. It definitely takes him too long to figure out how to move, but when he finally manages to pull the sheet over him, the grain of the cotton slips over his hip and he shudders. He ignores the urge that flares up to pass his hand between his legs, to rub away the warmth.

Some form of clarity comes back to Sans with that.

He blinks to clear his vision, though he’s trapped in a haze of both white and black, hot and cold. Everything throbs. His soul is heavy, feels thick in his chest even when he swallows to ease his rising nerves.

The realisation strikes him with no fanfare, but it’s eerie all the same. It’s not something he’s had to deal with. Not underground, not ever in his life. But Sans is aware of it, and maybe somehow he just thought that he’d be able to coast through life without ever experiencing it.

It’s heat.

Nothing triggers it as a surefire call to arms, but Sans supposes that he’s more stable than he has been in years. He’s certainly not ready for kids, so ‘dealing’ with it isn’t something he’s interested in. Hell, even under normal circumstances Sans has to be in a very specific mindset in order to be intimate.

As the thought crosses paths with his self-restraint, Sans pushes his hand down to latch onto his hip and gives the bone a good squeeze. He knows it’s useless to try to find relief on his own, and he’s heard that it often makes things worse. He had found that out during his last wikipedia binge. Heats were rare underground and well, call him curious.

But topside? He hadn’t really been paying attention to anything regarding… well, _that._

Sans supposes his sensitivity to light and warmth had nothing to do with the sun nor skylight after all. He digs his fingertips into his hip and he breathes out a stuttered sigh, like it’ll help. It’s going to be difficult, but he’s gotta get a hold of himself.

He’s still naked under the sheet, and even that’s barely tolerable. When he exhales a slow breath it’s like he’s blowing on glowing coals, and he feels the ache swell up his spine.

Touching himself will only make it worse.

He’ll get… Well, there’s a high probability of getting a kid out of this if he attempts some outside company at this rate.

His brain’s a little muggy, like he’s mentally wading through waist-deep waters, and it keeps lapping at his pubic symphysis to tease him. Sans clutches at the sheets covering his mattress, a bare reminder that he can’t do anything about it.

His hazy eye lights flick to the clock. 3:38am. All he can really do is wait for daylight to creep into his room via the tiny cracks between the towel and the skylight while his body yearns for familiar fingertips.

He swallows again, because although he’s trying very hard not to think about it, little _what-ifs_ sneak into his head. He’d already missed Grillby before, but entertaining having the fire monster over while he’s like this is painting a rather pornographic picture in Sans’ mind. He shifts his hips under the sheets to try to get comfortable, a low throb of magic pulsing through his marrow. It’s like his body is very much on board with the idea of inviting company over.

Of course it is. His body’s stupid and it would probably regret having a new soul nestled inside of it. Or worse, in Grillby’s.

_He’s not ready for kids, damn it._

…What if he was _really_ careful though? Grillby has such complete control over himself, and…

Sans just _really_ feels like having a dip in an icy pond right now, wow.

He turns his head away from the clock, which only reads 3:42am. It feels much longer than it’s actually been, and it’s almost like a punishment that he’s paying for in advance for being too happy. Sans huffs out a breath that’s half-caught, since his ribs feel over-sensitive, and his pelvis brushes just a little bit at this angle. A flurry of prickles roll up his spine with the slight movement, ending with a pulse at the base of his spine.

Under his breath, Sans helplessly swears.

He tries to sleep it off, but he’s rarely so comfortable in bed that normally he just twists and turns until he passes out. He’s got no luxury now, where every slight movement drives him closer to sensitivity. It’s white-hot like his boyfriend’s hands cradled around his waist, soothing heat down his sacrum while Grillby teases the small holes enough to make him squirm.

Fuck, his imagination is really laying it on thick. And what’s worse is that while the intrusive thoughts don’t normally do much for him, Sans’ breaths stutter out long and hard like he actually feels Grillby in the same room. It’s like he detects the soft smell of warm spices, tea and honey, and soft cedar charcoal.

Another shudder passes through his body, and Sans is adamant on absolutely _not_ touching himself. His hand lingers near his hip, his breaths hot and ragged like he’s physically keeping himself at bay.

If he so much as glides a finger down his pubic symphysis, his magic will drop into place. He’ll chase his end and it won’t be satisfying at all. He’ll be desperate and insatiable, and it’ll be awkward to explain it to his brother beyond his pathetic “uhh, I’m in heat” excuses.

God, Sans swears he can smell spiced cookies. It’s so stupid. Honestly, turning feral isn’t a real thing, used to tease teenagers. And pheromones, well… they didn’t exist, at least not in beings made of magic. There’s no reason why he should be smelling Grillby, unless his brain really was that far gone.

Grillby _does_ have a nice smell, though. Sans feels a longing deep within his soul, like he can’t stand to be apart from him. He misses him. Maybe Grillby should come over anyway. They wouldn’t have to do anything. Grillby can just chill next to him (in bed), and Sans can curl up next to him (in bed) while he soaks up Grillby’s warmth. Then maybe Grillby can reach over and thumb down his spine, map every curve of bone, and press his own warmth into the spaces that Sans’ heat hasn’t taken up.

Making excuses to see Grillby isn’t what’s going to help him through this. Sans twists around to read the clock again, ignoring the sensation that ripples up his body.

4:02am.

Fuck. He’s going to go crazy at this rate.

He lies back down and turns his pillow over to relish the cool side. He wishes that he had a fan. He’s definitely sweating, though he’s not sure if it’s simply because it’s getting hot in his room again, or if Sans’ body is working against him. He’s gonna go with ‘all of the above’, because his existence is apparently purely out of spite at this point. The heat is just the gross sweaty cherry on top.

It’s agonising to be alone for so long. The minutes slowly tick by, like a march towards something sinister. Sans starts to hear Papyrus stir and glances at his clock again: 4:44am. He thinks ‘nice’ because that’s just how his brain is now. Sans blearily blinks up when the door creaks open and a shadow obscures the dawn shining in from the hall window.

“Hey,” Sans croaks, sounding a bit too waterlogged for his liking. He doesn’t get up. He’s not sure if he’d be able to stifle the very embarrassing noises that he would make. It’s already kind of awkward that he’s naked save for a sheet draped across his hips. In the bare darkness, the magic gathered in his joints is like a beacon.

“Still not feeling well?” Papyrus asks from the door.

Sans shivers out a breath. He’d send Papyrus a look, but he’s not if he’s got anything family friendly in stock. It definitely doesn’t feel like he’d jump up and start curling around unsuspecting people’s legs like a cat, but his body has never done this before.

“It, uh… It’s not the flu,” is all Sans manages to say.

“Oh,” Papyrus says, like he’s not impressed or that he thinks he had over-reacted to Sans’ initial illness. Then it seems to hit him like a brick upside the head. _“Oh.”_

Sans’ grin is a little lurid, like he’s not sure how to take that. Papyrus stays in the hallway, in the barrier between his brother’s overly humid room and the first peeks of dawn.

Then he slaps his forehead, like Papyrus caught a fly, but no. Sans’ poor brother suddenly recognises the differences between a regular flu and certain cases of estrus amongst monsters. It’d be quite the jape, if he didn’t already know how Sans was when he was ill. Sans was just… Sans.

“How’d you come to…?” Papyrus sort of makes an odd gesture, like he’s trying to wrangle answers from thin air. Then he immediately shakes his head. “Never mind. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sans smiles a little sadly, though it’s undercut by how breathily he laughs. “Honestly, nah. Though it’s kinda like a sauna in here. C’n you… can you turn off the furnace?”

There’s a wrinkle in Papyrus’ brow ridge like he doesn’t understand.

“It hasn’t been on since Monday!”

Sans swallows again, wondering what he was hearing if not the vents. He carefully moves to sit up, taking care to keep his pelvis out of view. It doesn’t matter, since Papyrus’ eyes are locked to the ceiling.

It’s Wednesday, if Sans’ bedside alarm clock has anything to say about it, and the fancy screen shows that there is a 40-percent chance of thunderstorms. His laugh is a short dry chuckle and he _aches._ It’s been only a couple of hours since he’s been awake, and on top of being groggy with an accompanying thrum throughout his entire body, Sans is exhausted.

“Perhaps a cool bath is in order?” Papyrus suggests helpfully. It’s funny to see him talk to the ceiling. “Some gelato? Or I can bring in some ice cubes!!”

Sans doesn’t realise just how tense he’d become until the promise of something cool is offered to him. The bloom of warmth that washes over him is not unlike a fever, but Papyrus keeps a respectable distance. Which is absurd, really, since it isn’t contagious through normal physical contact.

“A bath sounds o.. ok,” Sans mumbles. He’s fully aware how early it is, but he’s desperate for a reprieve. He ignores the conflicted look that briefly flashes over his brother’s face when his eyes flick down from a very interesting spot on the ceiling, and Sans goes to move off the bed. He can’t hold back a hiss. To his knowledge, Papyrus hasn’t experienced heat before either. It’s likely his worry is because Papyrus thinks that he’s in pain. “I’m ok. Just haven’t been sleeping.”

Which is like telling Papyrus he’s the exact opposite of ok, now that he realises it. Sans grimaces and holds the sheet against him as he gingerly scoots off the mattress. Scooting is one of those manoeuvres he had hoped would keep what little dignity Sans had intact, but he’s just shy of a shudder by the time he reaches the foot of the bed.

Sans manages to wrangle the sheet around him, as despite the blasé attitude towards clothes growing up, there were lines family members just weren’t supposed to cross. Nonetheless, Papyrus is virtually the same as ever, and helps Sans over to the bathroom.

Now that he’s upright, he feels a lot less groggy, but Sans’ feet tingle with every step. He half-leans against the wall when Papyrus runs the bath. He’s missing half the conversation. Papyrus is talking and he can’t keep focus.

“-and while it’s unnecessarily hot during the day, this is _supposedly_ a way to cool off. Like many humans say, if you have a fever, you can put cubes of ice into the bath to bring down your temperature! But I wonder if Ice Wolf has access to glacial ice now that…”

Sans doesn’t hear the rambling, too preoccupied by the heaviness in his soul. It must not be too important, since Papyrus sends him grins and gestures for Sans to approach, so he does. It’s easier to step into the tub with Papyrus’ help, and Sans tries not to focus on the way his brother’s bones are much cooler than his own. Papyrus is taking strides not to linger, which is 100-percent ok with him.

A shiver shudders throughout Sans’ body when the cool water splashes up his legs and past his knees. It’s cool, not cold, but it might as well be freezing with how warm Sans feels. He clutches the sheet to himself, because suddenly it feels like a shock. It’s honestly the only thing keeping him warm now.

Papyrus’ furtive apology only makes him feel worse. Sans grimaces as he lowers himself down, shockwaves and trembles snaking down his spine like light fingertips. When Sans looks up, very aware of the flush between his joints as it refracts in the water, Papyrus’ eye lights are firmly shot upward again and he’s holding out a towel with both hands.

“Y’don’t gotta stay if you’re uncomfy, Paps,” Sans says excusingly.

“Uncomfortability aside, I will stay to ensure your good health!”

Sans’ grin is a little lopsided, but he shivers when he eases lower into the tub. His joints ache, and while he knows that it’s not ice-cold, it’s cool enough to make Sans’ already warm bones searing-hot. Cautiously, Sans drapes one side of the sheet across himself, like it’s going to keep him covered.

“Is there anything I can get you? Some tea? A refreshing beverage?”

_Grillby?_

Sans knows his brother didn’t really ask that. It’s his mind playing horny tricks on him. He represses a shudder but gestures vaguely towards the freestanding shelf that holds all their linens.

“Maybe a washcloth,” he relents a bit helplessly.

The cool water reminds him of the ocean, crisp and clean where he’s overheated and, unfortunately, slick in places. His magic feels like tiny bursts of air trapped in a bottle of soda, surfacing to the top after ages of being under pressure. All he can detect in the air is the soap Papyrus bought from a marketplace a few weeks ago and maybe the charged air from a crack in the window.

Papyrus goes to fetch what he asks for with no amount of hesitance, though he does run it under the tap to wet. Like he can see every spot on Sans’ sweaty head, Papyrus leans down and carefully presses the cloth to Sans’ temple.

Sans makes a muted noise of protest, but it’s more that it’s a bit too cool than anything scandalous. Papyrus gingerly dabs the cloth a couple of times and Sans exhales with some small sliver of relief.

“Thanks, man. You’re the best.”

Papyrus grins, but his eyes comically remain fixed on the ceiling. “Naturally. Although this is highly unprecedented.”

“For the record,” Sans interrupts quickly, stifling the shock of cold that slips down his neck when Papyrus moves the cloth, “I’m not entertaining kids.”

“You always entertain kids!! They’re just not your own. Though, it could be argued that they’re your own, and you’ve merely adopted them!”

Sans grimaces despite himself.

Then Papyrus shows mercy. “Though, I do know what you mean,” he adds quietly, a soft fondness in his voice, and Sans can’t help but feel a little guilty. “It’s quite obvious to anyone - especially your ultra-cool and very attuned brother - that…” Papyrus gestures with his free hand, and Sans feels embarrassed on top of guilty. “That…”

That… Sans has made it very clear that he’s got no interest in having kids. He doesn’t think it’ll stick, or he’s not strong enough, or he’s afraid that something would happen, or…

Maybe it’s just the thought of something growing inside of him that frightens him.

Papyrus seems to get it. He’s a good guy, not tapping on that fear and worry constantly like most other families would. Hell, even strangers bang on that drum, and Sans steers the conversation away after a very discreet mental hangup about teeny tiny skeletons.

“That… I may be second-guessing my decision on asking Mister Grillby to visit today,” Papyrus finally finishes, looking none too happy about it. Sans flinches, which in turn throws a trickle of water up his spine, only to slide down again. He shudders, then grabs the cloth for himself. “Listen, I didn’t know! And he was worried - he texts me when you don’t answer your phone, and-”

-And it’s like Sans’ filthy desires are shining brightly on his cheek bones. He dunks the washcloth into the water and presses it over his face so his brother can’t see how flushed he’s become at the thoughts that whip through his head. His cravings have nothing to do with how much he misses Grillby, but the thought of him coming over and seeing him like this, sensitive and filled with the intense want to…

Sans stops that line of thought right there.

“Dude,” is all Sans can think to say. Embarrassment and shame well up inside of him, and it must touch his words, since Papyrus gives him a gentle pat on the top of his head.

“I’ll call him straight away!” Papyrus adds hastily, like it’s no big deal, he can fix this. He dries his hands on the towel, then leaves it by the tub so Sans can dry off when he needs to get out. Under the washcloth, Sans’ eyes are wide and he can’t quite find the words. “I’ll tell him you don’t want him to come over!”

Sans whips the washcloth down and opens his mouth to speak, but no words make it out. He’s flushed, scandalised and torn between wanting Grillby there and wanting never to talk about this ever again.

“He’s a perfect gentleman, just like myself. He’ll understand!”

‘Perfect gentleman’, like Papyrus doesn’t know what Sans and Grillby get up to when they’re on their own. He doesn’t know the intimate purr that slips into the fire monster’s voice when he’s close, nor how Grillby’s tongue leaves soft sooty marks all over Sans’ bones when he tastes him. He doesn’t know about their last little get together, that left Sans’ legs trembling and weak from Grillby’s clever mouth.

He _can’t_ know, but when Sans peeks from behind the facecloth, there’s a bit of a repressed smirk tugging at the corner of Papyrus’ teeth. The phone is pressed to the side of his face, and Sans can hear the low trill of the ring from where he sits.

He huffs out a quick breath, as though it’ll stop the other line from picking up. What Sans doesn’t want to acknowledge is that his brother probably _does_ know what kinds of shenanigans they get up to, but Papyrus isn’t about to test his patience while he’s like this. That would be a bit too mean.

Regardless, the other line picks up. Grillby’s voice is too soft to be overheard, but Papyrus’ silence while the fire monster speaks is a glaring tell.

“Oh. You’re already here?”

Sans’ soul feels heavy and warm, like it’s doing its best to sink into the waters that lap against his rib cage. He’s not entirely sure that he still feels its coolness, but the aghast expression and the void pits of his eye sockets should’ve told his brother how mortified he was.

“Er… Yes, he’s, well. Quite alright,” Papyrus dodges that bullet rather clumsily. “No, actually! I _don’t_ think that’s a good idea.”

Sans covers his face again, this time with a low growl in his throat. It reverberates throughout the tub, and the water’s doing nothing but sending a thrum around his already sensitive body.

“Actually, I think that might be the _worst_ idea!” Papyrus suddenly says, like panic is setting in. He haphazardly covers the mouthpiece of his phone and very loudly says, “Sans, wash up and I shall distract him!”

Papyrus blindly takes off to do something, Sans didn’t really make it out. Then he’s gone, on his way out of the door and leaving Sans on his lonesome.

He flexes his fingers under the water. He swears he can smell spices again, but thinks that maybe it’s because Grillby’s standing on their porch, waiting diligently while Papyrus yells at peak volume from the top of the stairs down the hall. Sans just groans to himself, of two minds to just hide in his room until it blows over.

Or… invite Grillby up to join him.

There’s a long silence. He thinks that maybe Papyrus has let the fire monster in, since thunderstorms or even a wayward misty winds can be painful if Grillby doesn’t get to shelter. Sans thinks about what Papyrus told him to do; just wash up.

Wash up, despite the fact that he’s trying and failing to keep his hands to himself. It’s a slippery slope, though he’s careful not to agitate his already coalesced magic to form. Sans curls his toes, then sighs with the burden of allowing himself to soak in the cool water. He’s not exactly cosy, but it’s a small relief when he needs it the most.

He half-wonders how Grillby would take to seeing him in the tub, but Grillby’s expression tends to shift imperceptibly when water lingers. It makes Sans feel wanted, enraptured in the possessive passion of a fire monster. Grillby will even go as far as to steam the offending water away from him if Sans asks.

And those warm hands roam his body. Like he can feel it, Sans slips down in the tub, just short of dazed out while his brain works against him. While the cool water laps around his neck, his face feels hot. His joints are full of magic, ready to disperse and flood down to his pelvis, which is sensitive like he’d just scrubbed himself raw. He hasn’t even touched himself, but he feels too riled up to gamble with a wash.

Quiet talks from downstairs echo up the porcelain walls around him, urging him to sleep. It’s a long time before Sans finally gives up the ghost and deserts the drenched sheet in the tub to pull the plug. He’d been under the impression that ‘heat’ was just slang for estrus, and that it didn’t actually mean the burning his soul felt was actually anything.

In a sense, Sans can take care of it. He can attempt to sleep it off, have some food, watch bad science fiction and top it off with some monster anthropology for equally hilarious results. He can…

He doesn’t think that he can do this. Knowing that someone he trusts and makes him happy is nearby, it makes Sans yearn for touch all the more.

He detects a gentle waft of cinnamon, like Grillby’s brought something nice for him. Belatedly, Sans realises that he should probably get out of the tub and try to pat dry, but he’s not really sure how much physical contact he can stand. He tries to focus on his brother’s words, but they’re conveniently too low to hear over the street noises from the window.

There’s a low rumble in the distance, and even in Sans’ addled brain he knows that it’s too risky for Grillby to go home. He even went out despite the threat of thunderstorms, which makes a snake-like shiver crawl up Sans’ spine.

That devotion. That sincere love for him…

Grillby is just about as dumb as he is, Sans thinks with a fond grin.

Carefully, Sans presses the soft towel to the wetter areas, avoiding his pelvis until the very end. He doesn’t want his magic to collect anymore than it has, especially in case he arouses himself before Papyrus comes back with a change of clothes.

He debates a shortcut to his room, but stops and reconsiders. He recalls reading something about monster magic acting up while in heat, and Sans doesn’t feel like turning up somewhere strange if he attempts a shortcut. Especially naked.

So he’ll just sneak out of the bathroom like a tub convict, hiding his illicit goods with a towel wrapped around his waist.

He thinks he hears Papyrus mention something about cinnabuns, which is great. He’s not going crazy as he thinks about how Grillby smells. He’s not hungry; he’s got a surprisingly low appetite right now. All he wants to do is curl up in Grillby’s bed to inhale his scent.

There’s a flinch in Papyrus’ voice when another bout of thunder rumbles closer, and Sans sighs to himself, careful and measured. Yeah, there’s no way Grillby’s going home in this. From the open window come small patters of droplets along with the scent of warm earth and hot water. It’s one of Sans’ favourite smells on the surface, right next to summer campfires and the evergreen forest next to their sleepy town.

But he _aches._ His magic has been on the incline, building up with uncomfortable heat, like every atom that strings his body together is laced with fire. He mentally berates himself for such a comparison, especially when he remembers how good Grillby was to him the last time. His next breath is deliberate as Sans’ mind inches away from the thoughts of full thighs under his fingers, of Grillby’s heavy gasps buried into his throat as he rode him-

Fuck.

The tension in Sans’ spine almost throbs. It’s getting worse.

When he thinks the coast is clear, Sans slinks out of the bathroom and quickly crosses the hall to his open bedroom. Even in the darkness of his room, it’s lit up with the bright cyan pulse of his magic. His face is absolutely beaming, and although every movement is near agonising, Sans manages a few strides across the floor to his closet to quickly find something to wear.

Grillby’s the kind of guy who doesn’t normally take no for an answer when Sans feels unwell and attempts to push him away. Sans just prays that Papyrus has enough sense not to blurt out what’s happening to him, but even when he thinks about pulling on his lucky shorts and a tank top, Sans hesitates, knowing that the sensations will be too much to bear. He’s started to sweat again, robbed of the cool moisture of the bath and replaced by unbridled flush.

It’s through a mad rush that he pulls up his shorts, just holding back a ragged sound that’s too breathy for his liking. The fabric curls against his tailbone, igniting another burst of sensitivity, and Sans clenches his teeth down on the bare noise that’s stuck in his throat.

He’s got to get a hold of himself. His fingers clutch at the fabric of his shorts, just shy of pulling them in his grip. He feels the pulse of magic in his head, the shaking of his knees. He’s got to _hide,_ and quickly before he does something irreversibly stupid.

He knows that Grillby will ultimately come upstairs. Their home is his as much as it is Sans’, and every footfall he hears up the stairs sends a tremor through Sans’ soul. He’s frozen to the spot as molten magic throbs between his vertebrae, and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to deny him.

Grillby’s a gentleman. He’s never forced himself nor even coerced Sans into doing something he doesn’t want to. He’s understanding and kind, a gentle and comforting hand when Sans often needs.

And all he can hear the soft crisp sounds of flame approach, like Sans is slowly roasting. The autumn heat and the thunder outside echo in his skull, a rolling drumline to his starved libido.

He didn’t lock the door. He isn’t sure how he does it, more out of desperation than anything else, but Sans ends up curled on his bed. It’s warm, covered with a fresh blanket, which he sprawls out on like it’ll help to cool him down.

His soul nearly jumps when a soft knock sounds at the door. Like he can feel warm palms carefully caress down his spine, Sans exhales slow, measured and deep. He doesn’t mean to sound so reedy, but his voice touches the tail end of his breath like a yearning groan. Too much energy spent in a short period with very little sleep on top of it.

_“…Alright?”_

Bless Grillby. Bless that stubborn flame who knocks instead of barging in. Even with his soft voice, Sans feels the promise of it ignite something within his chest. He shudders again, curling up where he lays. His hips spurn the movement and the magic sends a heady pulse down the line of his pubic symphysis.

His body silently screams to be held, to be treated well. His body has gone from a low throb to a frantic pulse, alive and unbearable in the span of a few hours, all because Grillby is here. Sans huffs out something involuntary and heavy. He half-wonders if Grillby can hear it from the other side of the door.

It’s oddly quiet, like Papyrus keeps away for fear of overhearing something scandalous, most likely. Sans’ face burns, and there’s yet another reason he can’t entertain Grillby in his room: traumatising his brother in their own home is a surefire way to make things more than awkward.

_Hah, surefire._

There’s a small sliver of light under the door. It dances with Grillby’s ambient firelight, a gentle flicker that soothes Sans’ restless soul. He feels another particular yearning towards it, like he can scoop it off the floor and hold it close to his chest to keep. Sans smiles absently to himself, undercutting some of the fondness that he feels by wiping the sweat from his brow.

He wrenches the pillow from under his head so he can wrap his arms around it. It’s one of those body pillows Papyrus raves about, so one can hug something while they sleep. Sans knows how warm it is, but he honestly has to cover the light show going on under his meagre tank top, for fear Grillby would…

…Would what, exactly? Grillby isn’t a judgemental guy. He’s understanding. Hell, he’d probably offer to help, and-

Sans’ thoughts reel fast forward, and although he manages to halt the fond memories he has of their last time together, he nearly flinches with the sudden stop. His arms tighten more around the pillow, and he hitches up one of his legs. It leaves a small space between the mattress and his pelvis, which is a godsend. All it would really take is one small touch.

He’s left Grillby hanging for too long. He’s the kind of guy that will knock a few times, then enter to make doubly sure that everything is ok. True to form, the door knob turns with the precision and silence of a thief, and Sans can barely swallow the lump of nerves that’s stuck in his throat.

There’s a bright line from the carpet to the top of the door, shadowed by Grillby’s clothes in the middle. He’s still fully dressed, briefcase in hand. Sans can’t help but stare at the fire monster, all hooded lust in his eyes.

He must paint a terrible picture, using all cheap materials and bad camera angles. He’s sweaty, his soul is slick and prepped for _anything,_ and he’s self-conscious aside from it all. Sans hides a little behind the large pillow, cinching around it with his leg. He muffles a quiet sigh into the fabric, like it’s all Grillby needs to hear.

He doesn’t even know what to say. It feels too raw to make a joke out of, like he’d disappoint Grillby for pushing him away this time. Sans is put on the spot while Grillby considers him, patient, kind, quiet… Sans closes his eyes before he reads too much into it.

 _“Poor you,”_ the fire monster says, and it ripples through Sans’ body like a tidal pull. Sans can’t help but make some kind of sound of longing, drawn from his throat despite how much he wants to stay quiet. It feels like too long since he’s heard Grillby’s voice. After a moment of charged silence, the thunder sounds again, rolling down in distant spatial corridors. It’s further proof that Grillby can’t leave. _“May I come closer…?”_

 _Come closer,_ like Sans feels the promise radiate in his cheekbones. He turns his face a little more into the pillow, his pubic symphysis throbbing in time with his soul. It beats steadily to taunt him, crawling up his tailbone and spine like warm exploring fingertips. He thinks that maybe it’s soaking his ribs now.

Carefully, Sans nods with a shuddering exhale. Where the heat’s fever is agonising, Grillby’s warmth is pleasant, relaxing, inviting. Even though he gave his consent when he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have, Sans turns his head back to peek at Grillby as he approaches.

“Heat,” Sans mumbles, his voice just short of raw. It’s honest where he’s usually dismissive. “Hit fast.”

Grillby gives him a secretive smile, but there’s nothing sinister in it. His expression shifts subtly from what Sans can tell, and Sans can detect comfort beyond it. A promise of warmth, not sweltering agony.

_“So I see.”_

Grillby’s voice plays games with his head. All Sans can think of are Grillby’s long fingers curled into the voids of his ischiums, gently rubbing at him. Carefully, Sans shifts ever so slightly to make the ache in his pelvis disperse, but it fills him with a needy throb instead. He can’t help the shivering breath he takes, like it’s whittled from his throat.

His defenses are down, but he can tell that Grillby is thinking about something long and hard. Sans tries not to flex his fingers into the plushness of the pillow, hyper aware of how much he wants to curl up in Grillby’s arms.

It’s probably best that Grillby leaves.

But… just one touch.

As though Grillby understands, he crouches next to the mattress on the floor. It actually takes some doing, which makes Sans’ blown eyes fall upon him, hungry and restrained. Grillby carefully brushes his fingers just over the curve of Sans’ skull, keeping the touch chaste and brief as he passes over the ridge over Sans’ left eye. As much as he sees a shiver roll up Sans’ shoulders, eliciting a muted noise just barely contained in Sans’ throat, Grillby doesn’t push beyond that.

He’s being good, respecting boundaries like always. He never proceeds without Sans’ consent nor without his permission. So even though Sans feels every fibre in his body burn to pull Grillby down by his tie, he remains still. Grillby’s fires are comfortable, as always.

But it’s too risky. Sans is extremely aware of the fact that his soul is slick and hot, weeping down his spine and probably even showing through his shirt. His next breath is involuntarily deep, just on the cusp of the sounds he makes when Grillby’s fingers sink into him, right to the knuckle.

His throat betrays him by locking up. Sans feels Grillby’s ambient warmth sink into his body, and his bones ache even more than before. He wants to pull Grillby into bed with him. To hell with sex; he’ll settle for getting off in other ways, with Grillby’s hands, with his mouth, with gentle kisses and hot breaths.

He doesn’t register that Grillby has asked him something. He’s quickly losing the ability to focus as time goes on, thinking too much about the things (or person) he’d rather be doing. The fire monster gives him a tender smile and Sans can feel it curl up in his soul when Grillby withdraws his hand, and Sans resists the urge to pull it back. He’s exhausted on top of everything, and it finally settles in on him like a heavy rock when Grillby carefully leans back.

_“Do you… want for me to stay?”_

God, it’s so unfair to ask that. Of _course_ Sans wants him to stay. Heat or no heat, when Grillby speaks that way, Sans wants to soak up his affection for this unquenchable thirst.

But he has to be good. He has to stick with the original plan. As much as his driven brain wants to pull Grillby closer and murmur for him to fuck him into the mattress, Sans silently shakes his head.

It’s disappointing, but Grillby is a good guy. He won’t take advantage of him. He doesn’t guilt Sans when he needs space, and he doesn’t argue unless it’s for Sans’ own good. Sans thinks for a moment that Grillby wants to touch him again, but somehow the fire monster resists. He’s left wanting, agonised over a starved reaction with food held so far out of reach. And he’s doing it to _himself._

Sans belatedly realises that he hasn’t answered Grillby’s question. Sans’ whole body aches when he gives another short shake of his head, but he sighs out at the same time.

“No.”

It’s brutally honest, but the clear hesitance in his voice is raw like a wound. He sounds pathetic. Sans _feels_ pathetic, especially when Grillby’s expression softens like he knows all too well what he’s going through.

 _Because heat, hah,_ Sans thinks right on the verge of delirium.

 _“That’s quite alright,”_ Grillby says softly, though there’s no reproach in his tone. That’s good, considering that guilt torments Sans despite it all. _“Will be downstairs… should you need me. Will… check in on you. Occasionally.”_

Every part of Sans is in agony. Something inside of him had wanted Grillby to object, but no. He’s a good guy. He always makes sure that Sans is comfortable. Blearily, Sans wonders if he had hurt Grillby’s feelings. The fire monster doesn’t reach out to cup his skull like he always does. He’s keeping perfect distance from him. Respecting his wishes.

The insides of Sans’ bones are too warm, though Grillby doesn’t seem affected by it. That’s probably another myth, that fire monsters are susceptible to heats in others. There’s a perfectly slow agony that creeps up Sans’ spine and settles in with the pressure of an aging star. It’s heavy and thick, and Sans finds that it’s difficult to keep his thoughts straight.

Grillby doesn’t touch him, but he lingers for a moment like he wants to show some form of reassurance. Grillby probably isn’t used to not showing him affection when he needs it, but Sans’ addled mind can slot two brain cells together enough to know that the fire monster probably doesn’t want to exacerbate his condition.

Sans just watches as Grillby’s ambient light flickers around in dreamy contrast to his shady room. His boyfriend takes Sans’ cell phone from his bedside table to plug in and leaves it next to him on the mattress. Then with a gentle murmur that ignites more than soothes, Grillby takes the loving warmth with him when he leaves, keeping the door slightly ajar as Sans watches the bright flames leave his direct sight.

Then Sans shivers, because it’s almost too much to bear. He was calmer with Grillby nearby, a soothing anchor in the world where he felt like he was drifting away. He curls in on himself, strangling a soft noise of protest like he can’t help but make soft whimpers when he moves. The fever’s just that bad, and there’s nothing anyone could do to relieve it.

Well, other than…

A small light comes from the peripheral of his vision when he finally snaps out of the daze, and Sans’ hazy eye lights slowly drift down to settle on the screen of his phone. There’s a preview of the text message Grillby sent him, which blinks out just as he finishes reading it.

 _Call me up should you need anything._ ♡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: morning


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans calls Grillby up and gets a little tease. Sans makes Grillby promise, and Grillby offers an alternative that might help. 👀

Though he’s got no appetite, Sans can at least sleep. The worst thing about having shitty health in general is that sleep either comes easily or fitfully, there is no middle ground. The persistent ache in his body robs him of the former. Every time he wakes, his eye lights seek out the time, only to find that it’s been mere minutes since he had last checked.

An hour or three have passed since Grillby went back downstairs. The thunder continues to make fanfare to his aches and pains, which thrums down the height of the house. The rain falls against the covered skylight, pattering in windy waves. At some point, Sans forgot that Papyrus had intended on going out to get curtains, but Sans isn’t quite sure anymore.

He drifts in and out, clutching tightly to the pillow. He knows for sure that Papyrus put something under the fresh blanket to help with cleanup, but Sans is so fully self-aware of the fluid that slips down the length of his ribs that he’s not sure if it’ll be enough. It’s warm, thin and slippery. Makes it easy for friction, and Sans shudders with that thought. He stays put, because he doesn’t want to make it worse. He can’t afford to.

The density that throbs at his pubic symphysis has already made Sans latch onto his hip more than once. He tries desperately not to squeeze as it’s just _tempting_ fate, but he can’t help it. He needs to do something, and he’s just short of snapping. All he can think about is Grillby, downstairs.

On top of it all, his head is swimming. He’s not sure if this part is due to the heat or not, or simply because he’s only had a mouthful or two of oatmeal and some broth in the past day. He knows he shouldn’t ignore his lack of appetite simply because he’s so afraid to jump Grillby’s bones if he were to try to go downstairs.

He’s got his phone. Grillby was too kind by plugging it into the outlet to make sure he had power instead of leaving it at its usual 15-percent charge. His arms have never really moved from the body pillow, so Sans blindly searches for his phone, only to find another text after Grillby’s previous one.

_Brought something sweet. Your favourite. Your brother declined. More for you._

There’s a veiled invitation there. Grillby could bring it up (a bad idea), or Sans can come down (also not happening). For the first time since becoming afflicted with his body’s torture, Sans smiles to himself, though it’s a little rueful. He curls up, pausing when his shorts press against his sensitive tailbone. It draws a heavy gasp from him, a sharp thing that sounds pained, but Sans also can’t help but think about the first time Grillby sank into him, slow, oh so slowly.

He thinks that noise came out then, too. Flushed both from his apparently very dirty mind and from the tempo that beats along his bones, Sans stays put. His room is a haze of humid warmth and charged atoms, floating between where he stares and when he blinks. Every throb is so pronounced that he gradually loses himself in it, laid down on his side, trying not to think about it.

Despite himself, Sans’ breaths have started to quicken. They come at the tail end of every throb, pulsing enough that when he inhales, it hitches. He can’t help it. His body is stupid, wound up over nothing. Wound up over wondering if Grillby’s fingers will snuff out when Sans feels them bury between his legs-

Unbidden, Sans strangles off a whimper. He can’t take it. It’s been literal hours and his soul is pounding hard, warm and slick. He feels like he’s both hungry and parched, on the very edge of arousal and pain.

It’s _terrible._ He never thought that heat could be this bad. He knew that people secluded themselves on the rare time or two that it happened, but… Sans really had no frame of reference.

He attempts to wait it out. He’s a pretty patient guy as far as doing nothing goes. It’s just a shame that his entire body conspires against him, thrumming at a low resonance enough to make him _burn._ It’s not enough that Grillby is a literal man of fire, but the unquenchable fever that smoulders in Sans’ bones is enough to draw soft, nonsensical little pleas from him.

He does something stupid.

His arms ache and when he shifts his weight, Sans hisses out. There’s a residual throb, and all he can think about is how much he wants it to stop. Sweat beads on his skull, trickling down his face and neck to share the sensation with him.

He texts Grillby.

_Up_

That’s all he sends. It’s all pleas, heartache and want, buried in the libido of an idiot who can’t think about anything else but to bite down on the pillow. It’s the only thing that serves as a sound barrier against the door.

There’s no rush, but Sans’ soul beats rapidly, like he anticipates Grillby to hasten to his aid. Like Grillby is as far gone as he is, like he can read his mind and take him-

The door doesn’t slam open. In fact, he doesn’t see the telltale glow of flames from beyond the hall. It feels like an eternity, and he’s trapped between the Event Horizon and the heat death of the universe.

Sans lets out a half chuckle. Well, at least his sense of humour isn’t dried up.

It’s dumb that he was even briefly excited, but instead of the hope that Sans felt in that moment where he had thought that Grillby was going for the stairs, his body thrums lowly, radiating heat like white-hot coals. It aches in his shoulders and fans out at the joints, paralysing him with something not quite like pain, but closer to a harsh tenderness. He feels the ache more like a firm squeeze, when Grillby’s fired up and raring to go.

It’s not anything he doesn’t willingly give him. Sans is mostly caught off guard most days, like he still can’t believe that Grillby wants and loves him as much as he does. He doesn’t get what others have, the ability to look at someone else and crave physical touch. He’s never been that free. He doesn’t think that he’d ever be that free.

He is with Grillby, though.

Maybe he’s overthinking it, like always. Maybe Sans just wants to believe that he wants this, and it’s not actually heat, and denying Grillby’s affections was needlessly cruel to the both of them.

But then again - his brain is an epicentre of regrets when it comes to acknowledging what he wants.

The mechanism that controls time seems like it’s at a standstill. Sans doesn’t even check the clock on his bedside table. He can see the pale blue glow of it, hazy numbers out of the corner of his eye. He knows it’ll just drag on, minute by minute, hour after agonising hour.

He entertains his brain by allowing his thoughts to wander. He thinks about Papyrus’ trip to the store, and wonders what Grillby’s up to downstairs. He wonders how he feels if he’s there all by himself. Grillby’s usually good about seeing his texts right away. Generally, it’s the way he finds out how the bar is doing on his mandatory days off.

The pulse in Sans’ body winds down, if only for a little while. He eases the tension in his back and relaxes onto the mattress, trying not to linger on how hot and wet his soul is. It’s easier to close his eyes when he feels the warmth swell up around him, like it’s a dumb fever and it’s roasting his rational thoughts.

He continues his idle distractions.

Sans wonders if Grillby wants to come up. It’s an innocent thought, not one laced with long fingers or a cheeky tongue. Grillby’s kind of a clingy - no, _affectionate_ guy, reliant on physical touch for comfort and reassurance. He’s grown used to it. Sans has grown used to it. He could do with a hug right now, one of Grillby’s patented rib-creakers that spreads warmth both up Sans’ throat and down his lower back.

There’s that traitorous throb again. It times itself with the flicker of white light from overhead.

Then he waits.

He huffs out a startled breath when a loud crack of thunder snaps through the clouds over their house, and Sans flinches. He’ll never get used to the thunderstorms up here. He’d been accustomed to the small tremors and earthquakes underground, but nothing there had made his soul jump as much as it does now. Everything above the surface seems charged with electricity.

With the small jolt comes a rush of magic, like the heat took that moment to collect at the base of his spine. It’s tender, and if he moves, Sans knows he’ll make a sound. Just in case he wasn’t an idiot, he tries anyway, because he really needs to find his limit. Something not quite like pain ripples up his spine, lacing between his joints and sprawling out like a shock.

It puts him on his back, legs fallen open. Sans cracks an eye to stare up at the ceiling, his vision broken by the brief flicker from between the towel and skylight. Then there’s a more distant rumble a few seconds later.

His breath comes in soft shuddered gasps. He doesn’t dare do anything with his hands, so Sans just leaves them hovering uselessly by his chest. The new angle he’s laying at makes the slick from his soul trickle down a whole other rib, which makes him shiver.

His body is stupid.

Sans takes a few calming breaths. He must’ve made some kind of noise, as he hears footsteps down the hall. Maybe it’s his brother, come home and very quietly hoping to catch Sans asleep while he installs the curtains.

Instead of… whatever he’s doing now.

Sans swallows, the action thick like he’s got a stuffed throat. That train of thought derails somewhat and he tries another deep breath to calm down, averting his eyes from the door and from who might be approaching.

There’s the subtle crackle of flames again, because of course there is. The body pillow hides him from view, but there’s no way he can bite back the terrible noise of stripped want that escapes him when he hears Grillby’s voice.

_“Alright up here..?”_

Grillby pauses when he doesn’t answer. Sans’ eyes crack open, flushed and on the cusp of pushing his hips off the bed. It’s everything he can do not to beg for the fire monster to come closer, to say to hell with it all and close the door for good.

He doesn’t look directly at him, but he knows Grillby’s a little worried. He takes on a darker hue when he’s pensive or low in spirits, which is such a glaring tell. Sans can’t even tell him not to worry, because he doesn’t trust himself not to ask Grillby to come lie down with him. Just hold him. Just stroke his head a little, maybe his back.

He craves affection as much as he does relief. Sans turns his head, but it’s like one side of it is filled with lead. He can’t help the whimper, the bit back protest. He doesn’t even know what he says. He doesn’t dare move. Flush rises up his throat, marked by his magic like a beacon.

 _“Would you… like for me to stay awhile?”_ Grillby seems hesitant, trapped in the open doorway. Sans turns his head a little more to his ambient firelight, bathing in it like it’s a beam of sunlight. _“No touching. Not unless you want it.”_

Sans manages to grin despite himself. He’s torn between saying _yes, god, please,_ and telling Grillby he doesn’t trust his brain right now to not jump into his lap and ride him into the sunset. Instead, he tries to ease the beating pressure on his tailbone by digging his heels into the mattress, like it’ll somehow help.

“C’n’t get comfy,” he mumbles, half-aware of how out of breath he sounds. He’s not fully sure if Grillby heard that or not, but his eye lights sharpen when Grillby slowly pushes the door open.

A promise? Or something else.

His body’s stupid. Sans tries to calm it with a deep breath. It feels like it rattles in his chest, knocking around all the riled-up magic that sticks to his bones. He’s sweating. He’s a mess. Sans doesn’t think he can entertain higher brain functions right now. His tank top is getting soaked by his dripping soul.

So he just eases back down, his coccyx cradled just so by a nest of the sheet. It’s only just bearable. All he can smell is spices used in Gyftmas baking, like Grillby decided it was time to bathe in cinnamon, cardamom and nutmeg.

The silence between them is lengthy, but that’s never been a hurdle for Grillby. He steps into the room, mindful of Sans’ boundaries and approaches a chair set at the overburdened dresser to take with him to the bedside. Sans stares at him, all unbridled want in his eyes. It’s like he’s hanging on by his fingertips and Grillby’s presence is forcing each of his fingers up one by one.

For being fire, Grillby’s movements are as fluid as silk. He sits down within arms’ reach, but he doesn’t touch. He doesn’t disturb the bed. Sans has got a good look at him, in his regular autumnal clothes to stave off the chill. Funny, considering the whole ‘fire’ thing, but… Sans’ brain is working on not eye-banging his boyfriend right now.

Grillby must see it. He’s an observant guy. His eyes avert for a moment, paler golds touching his flames before they roll away again. Sans can read him just about as well as the kid, but he’s not at his best. He’s probably at his all-time low right now. He doesn’t know what Grillby is thinking - or if he even is.

 _“Is this… alright?”_ Grillby asks, like Sans isn’t mentally twisting in the wind.

Shallowly, Sans regards him as he sighs out, shivering on the cusp of saying fuck it, he wants a kiss.

But his body does the dumb thing and nods, because again: stupid. If his libido isn’t sated or tended to, he can at least get reaffirmation and comfort out of this. It’s his own damned fault for ghosting Grillby beforehand, otherwise he wouldn’t have been worried enough to drop by…

“Yeah,” Sans finally murmurs, his voice raw like he’s considering his final wishes.

Grillby lights up a little, like it’s a comfort that Sans allows him to stay. It’s kind of adorable how the room glows when he’s happy or content, and Sans finds that he’d missed it, even though it’s only been a good week or so since he’s last seen it. He can’t help the rueful smile, and Sans grimaces a little as he sets his own hands onto his chest. The tank top is soaked through.

“S’rry `bout the, uh…” he adds a little helplessly, inferring _soul jizz_ like he’s the most mature adult in town. “Company,” Sans settles on.

Grillby gives him a wry grin. Sans likes it, feels the way the fire monster’s heat blooms up and towards him, like Grillby can’t help his nature by fluttering close. It makes him feel a little better. Not like he’s going to rip out of bed and assault him, no, that’s a lie to scare the ignorant, but Sans wouldn’t mind him being closer.

 _“Never be,”_ Grillby chuckles, and Sans can feel the way his magic crawls up his throat like a dirty secret. Idly, Sans flexes his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, woefully disgusted with himself. _“Is it… usually this bad?”_

Usually? Ah. Wow, Sans doesn’t know what to say to that. Grillby assumes that he’s felt safe enough to experience heat before, when it’s only been a fairly recent thing. Sans doesn’t look at him, not directly, watching instead the haze of warmth that permanently wafts off Grillby’s body like hot asphalt in the sun.

Sans’ grin is a little bashful, a little caught off guard. Like always. Like Grillby surprises him on a daily basis if he lets him.

Sans kind of coughs. He’s not sure why, but his face burns anyway. Then, very quietly, he admits, “First time.”

 _“Oh,”_ Sans thinks he hears Grillby say, but it’s got none of the dumbstruck monotone that Papyrus dropped on him. Instead, the fire monster’s voice wavers a little, like he understands right away. He’s a clever boy.

‘First time’ generally means a monster feels secure enough to propagate. That nothing threatens their existence, nor any of their family.

In short, Sans feels safe.

Sans can’t help but avert his eyes, dropping his gaze to Grillby’s hands, then flicking them down to the foot of his bed.

Grillby doesn’t make any noise of discomfort - he’s too attuned to how people react that he’s got himself trapped sometimes. But Sans can tell he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“You can leave,” he says automatically, like giving the fire monster an out is something expected of him, rather than not. Sans chances a quick glance Grillby’s way to see something pensive in those flames before they dance away again. “Y’don’t gotta stay.”

His voice betrays how that thought hurts him, and Sans cracks a grin as though to counteract it.

 _“Can help you, if you want?”_ Grillby’s a gentleman, but Sans’ body yearns for physical contact. Sans flexes his fingers into his shirt, into the bedspread. His face and joints are probably permanently flushed with how he feels.

“No,” Sans replies too quickly. There’s a brief stutter of light, like it caught Grillby by surprise. Tactfully, Sans swallows, unable to successfully mute a shivering breath when he amends that to, “I’ve got it covered.”

Grillby pointedly looks to the way Sans is sprawled out on the bed. All his limbs look heavy, like the universe is pressing down on every primal urge in Sans’ body. He practically trembles from it, kept still for so long that he’s starting to shake.

 _“First time’s generally the worst,”_ Grillby quietly says, like he knows all too well what Sans is going through. _“I’m not asking for consent to touch you. I’m asking if you’ll allow me to bring up food, drinks…”_ The fire monster can’t hide his grimace. _“…Ice.”_

Sans knows how that’s gotta sting and tries once more to ease the pressure from his coccyx. He tilts his hips up even as he entertains Grillby lingering, to help him through this.

No touching. He won’t be Sans’ sexy, sexy saviour, no matter how much his magic yearns for it. No matter how much he thinks he’ll go crazy. Grillby is disciplined that way.

Too bad Sans isn’t.

He sighs. It shudders out, all hot want just begging for relief. Grillby’s warmth is different than the heat that broils within his body, and if Grillby offers anything else, Sans isn’t sure if he’ll be able to resist.

So, he speaks and it’s with no amount of accusation, “Yes.”

Then, resolutely, fear flashes over his face. “Wait, I mean-” What does he mean? He doesn’t know. His soul jump-starts anew, and although Grillby doesn’t move, Sans feels the need to crawl away. He’s horrified, engulfed with little to no self-restraint.

“M’not comfortable,” he relents, like that’s suddenly breaking news. “Body’s, uh… working overtime.” Sans doesn’t know if that’s entirely helpful or not, and he’s too afraid to be judged by Grillby, even though Grillby would be the last man to judge him even if the world was ending. “Way overtime. No breaks, shitty pay. Gotta call the union.”

The fire monster exhales a soft chuckle, and its timbre makes a tingle pulse up Sans’ spine. He likes that sound. _“Dreadful.”_

Sans hums, though it’s whispery and soft. “All I c’n think of is-”

Is what? That’s too honest. He doesn’t dare look at Grillby, who’s relaxed and easy in the chair. He’s got his hands clasped over his knees and he’s slouched. Slouching never really suits him, but there’s something so homey to his posture that Sans can’t help the grin that cracks his teeth.

“Welp. The body’s stupid and the brain’s not t.. too far behind,” Sans adds, like he’s trying and failing to keep Grillby there, so he doesn’t just up and leave. “Keep…” Suddenly Sans feels as though he can barely push out his breath, and it shakes out, low and hard - like during all those times when Grillby thumbed down his spine with his hot hands. Like the first time he touched his soul. Fluid seeps into the cracks between his vertebrae like an unwelcome haze. “Keep thinkin’ about you.”

Grillby hums again in consideration. _“I know.”_ It’s as simple as that. _“I am here for you.”_

Grillby spoils him. Sans can’t help the broken way his laugh escapes him, like he’s trying not to outright sob. His legs tremble a little, his grip tight on the bed sheets. It crinkles, protection for his overly-roused body.

It’s hard to think beyond what he wants - and Sans wants nothing more than for Grillby to ‘help’ him with a great many things. One, orgasms, and probably a lot of them. Two, to sort out his whole weird body thing, like the part where his spine refuses to relax.

Can he say it though? Nope, because that’s too honest. Too complicated, even though Grillby understands that he’s not ready.

He’s not sure if what Grillby means by ‘helping’ is a double offer for sex, so Sans is nervous to accept right away. Maybe if he dictates the small things (snacks, drinks, maybe another blanket for old time’s sake), Grillby will know it’s off the table.

He’s never felt pressured before. He’s just scared of what might happen.

“Hip hurts,” he mumbles. The fever’s a bit too much, like Grillby’s presence unintentionally adds to it. “Aches. Slips, it… feels kinda bruised.” Look at him being honest.

 _“Difficult to get comfortable?”_ Grillby clarifies, and Sans can’t even nod. When the fire monster leans forward, Sans makes a small noise in his throat. Grillby pauses. _“I can help.”_

God, Sans knows that. He tries not to linger on the way his face flushes high on his cheekbones, radiating heat so much his eyes feel like they’re going to water. He clenches his fist into the sheet again, unable to stop himself.

“Yeah.” To hell with it. He doesn’t trust himself, but he can sure as hell trust Grillby. He’s just unable to stop from panicking when Grillby leans forward again to stand, then reaches over him. His knee braces onto the bed.

His entire body seems to like the idea of Grillby looming above him so much that Sans has to choke away his anticipatory whimper. Worse yet is that when Grillby’s thighs press against the side of the mattress, it eases with his weight. Sans’ body yearns and pleads for his boyfriend next to him so much that Sans doesn’t even register what he’s trying to do when Grillby reaches over him.

His magic drops into place. Sans’ throat feels so tight that he’s sure the next words he says will be hoarse as all hell, and he’s just shy of grabbing Grillby’s shoulder to manoeuvre him to where he wants.

Fluidly, Grillby brings a discarded pillow from the wall and looks down to Sans. It’s kind of difficult to read his expressions sometimes, even now, but Sans must paint another gross picture to have that wave of surprise pass through Grillby’s flames again.

 _“Pity,”_ Grillby murmurs, and Sans feels it ripple throughout his body. He digs a heel into the bed again to stave off the throb in his newly conjured magic, but he’s distracted. Pity isn’t something he expects from Grillby. _“This must… hurt so much.”_

Sans wouldn’t call it pain. He’s used to a fair amount of discomfort and aches, but this is downright unbearable. He tries not to press against where Grillby’s knee pushes against the mattress, but he feels a sudden need to cover up. It’s like he’s bared open, suddenly too exposed.

“Y’don’t gotta stay,” he tries again, breathing like he’s drowning. “M’cool.”

Grillby clicks his tongue almost in admonition. _“You’re in heat.”_

Sans shudders. “Yep. Ironic, isn’t it.” He’s not quite with it, focused on the haze of blue digital numbers on his nightstand. He thinks he sees a 2 somewhere in there. The concept of time is a wild and cruel mistress. “Can’t sleep.”

Patiently, Grillby exhales and brings the spare pillow around to cradle the dip in Sans’ side below his ribs and above his pelvis. _“Needlessly stubborn,”_ he quips quietly, chastising.

They both flinch when there’s another crack up in the sky, then another rolling rumble. Sans is keenly aware of the fact that Grillby’s hand is still holding the pillow to his side. It almost feels bearable.

 _“Would it help to put this under..?”_ the fire monster enquires, and Sans doesn’t miss the fact that Grillby’s looking at his pelvis. It’s probably a light show of bad ideas and desperation. Oddly enough, he wants to show Grillby how bad it is.

“Probably,” Sans admits lamely, though he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stand the sensation of lifting his hips or back for Grillby to place the pillow. It feels like a lot suddenly. He averts his eyes, like all his wants and hopes will betray him if Grillby sees him.

He doesn’t move. Grillby doesn’t force him to move. From downstairs, Sans hears the inevitability of the door clacking shut and his brother’s usual exclamation about how much it rains. He almost feels his soul sink, like Sans was hopeful that Grillby would actually maybe push ahead… search out his aching magic or slink his fingers up into his chest.

He huffs out an aggravated sigh despite himself, and Grillby carefully manoeuvres out of Sans’ personal space. He’s a good guy, but Sans has no doubts how awkward this has to be for him. Or for himself.

Instead of asking if he’s hungry or anything Sans expects, Grillby asks, his voice sweet and soft; _“Would you like to keep something of mine?”_

Sans blinks up at the ceiling, the rusty cogs in his mind stalling then ultimately grinding to a halt. He’d been too anxious over calming his breathing that he doesn’t realise that he just slips out a confused “What?” like that’s somehow asking for clarification.

Grillby’s smile is sweet though, no conniving nor teasing. He’s ready to help, just like he promised.

 _“It helps,”_ he continues, his voice warm. Sans feels another strong urge to grab his hand and press it against him, maybe to his throat. _“To calm the senses. Most find it helps to soothe when one denies themself relief.”_

Sans’ brain says _fuck it, yes,_ because Grillby ultimately can’t keep his hands to himself. He doesn’t understand the meaning behind why it’d help, but he wants every scrap of what Grillby offers him. The fire monster’s hand curls just over the temple of his skull again, flame on bone, gentle licks soothing and pleasantly hot. Sans can’t not react to it, curling into the touch like he’s starved for it.

Grillby must know how much he aches, since he doesn’t tease as he normally does. He keeps the touch brief, but a small soothing caress that makes Sans’ soul jump into overdrive. His fingers brush against the line of his jaw, small flames taking their sweet time to give him a little kiss.

His sigh is full of want, shuddering on the tail end of giving in with the one sweet display of affection.

_“Perhaps my shirt?”_

_“Oh,”_ Sans says, because that’s it, his brain is lost now. He stammers something in the air, breathless and faultlessly grasping for excuses to tell Grillby to stop. He instead flexes his fingers into the sheet, grasping his soaked shirt with his other hand. Something tells him that he’d just get Grillby’s shirt gross, but then again… Grillby’s been with him for years. He already knows how gross he can get.

 _“Please”_ falls off Sans’ tongue like he’s begging for more fingers, and for a moment, Sans thinks that’s what Grillby’s going to give him. The fire monster’s hand delves lower, sinking down to press against his ribs. His ambient heat filters down through Sans’ soaked tank top, drying the slick so it doesn’t stick to Sans’ bones. Sans can feel the haze of comforting intent wrap him up like a heavy blanket. His chest heaves against Grillby’s palm, pushing it up as far as it’ll go when he suddenly inhales, deep like he’s ravaged.

He’s wet. He’s soaked through his clothes, he’s warm and overworked. Every thought is tainted with how much he wants to be intimate, and it wars inside of his rational brain like two teenagers yelling over the subway tracks going in opposite directions. He’s gotta get a hold of himself. He _needs_ to set a limit for Grillby to uphold, otherwise Sans is going to do some really regretful things.

So, hastily, as soon as Grillby lifts his hand from his ribs, “No sex,” putters its way out of Sans’ throat. It’s raw and to the point, but it doesn’t catch Grillby off guard. “No matter how m.. much I beg. I don’t want…”

It’s easy to figure out what Sans doesn’t want. They’ve had the conversation a time or two, so Grillby gives him his word, both in the crackle of his flames and in the soft echo of his voice.

_“I promise, love.”_

_Love,_ because Grillby isn’t shy to show his affection. He doesn’t strip down like Sans expects him to, probably because he figures that Sans will have some kind of horny meltdown if he takes off his jacket and shirt right now. And also, Papyrus, who must be tittering downstairs in a panic to find that Grillby went upstairs and it’s suspiciously quiet.

Grillby’s reassurance gives Sans more comfort than he thinks he deserves, though. His grin is still lopsided and he toys with the sheet between his fingertips to keep his thoughts (and hands) from wandering. Instead of two steps, there’s now only one movement that needs to be done in order to give himself relief.

“Thanks, firefly.”

Grillby’s smile can really melt his heart. He’s treated to one such smile, one that’ll show little pips of cyan and fuchsia if he stares at the flames for long enough. Sans wants to lean up and kiss him, but he knows better. Papyrus is home now. That and… well, heat.

_“You want food?”_

Sans still doesn’t have an appetite, but he supposes he should at least try. He gives Grillby his noncommittal “Sure”, then tries to ease down again. He can both hear and feel Papyrus try to creep up the stairs.

Grillby carefully gives his skull another brief caress, and Sans sinks against it, sighing out fully. _“Will arrange for something palatable.”_

Sans feels the dip in the bed ease when Grillby stands, and he’s again faced with something like separation anxiety when Grillby parts with him to leave. He briefly returns when he unearths a crocheted blanket from a corner of the room, more to be provided out of modesty than for a chill. He doesn’t linger, and Sans catches himself just in time, right on the verge of calling for Grillby to come back.

Grillby doesn’t close the door behind him, but he glances at Sans. It doesn’t look like he wants to leave Sans on his own.

Sans doesn’t want him to keep away either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: afternoon
> 
> Not seen: Papyrus coming back from the Home Depot to find that Grillby's gone upstairs when he probably explicitly told him _not_ to. 😂


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus comes back from the depot for homes, has a talk with Sans (who thinks he's dying). Grillby gives something to Sans to finally calm him down after some raunchy teasing and comfort.

It’s much later in the afternoon.

Papyrus slinks in with his curtains as Sans goes to grab the blanket Grillby left on the side of the bed. His brother gave him some time to cool down after the fire monster had left, but it still made things feel awkward when his little brother tiptoed into the room with a screwdriver and his bag of drapes.

Sans kind of wants to clarify that no funny business went down while Papyrus was gone, but he also feels like that would be suspicious to bring up unsolicited. So he just watches as Papyrus’s form hazes in and out of view while his brain attempts to eat away at every reason why going downstairs is a very bad idea right now.

He’s only barely aware of Papyrus asking him if he’s alright, and Sans makes some kind of noise of affirmation. He’s not sure if it’s voluntary or not, but seeing his brother propped up in thin air like he’s on a ladder is doing stupid things to his head. Maybe that’s how Papyrus feels when he uses his shortcuts.

At any rate, Sans still feels terrible. He’s pretty sure he’s only felt this bad when he had that one illness that kicked up magic for weeks and the light wheeze when he breathed lingered for months after the brunt of it was gone. But it didn’t have the same aches, the localised craving, the spotty way that Sans flitted back and forth on his decision to butch it out.

He’s forgetting something about that.

Papyrus is talking. Sans doesn’t quite understand what the topic is. Something about the ‘depot for homes’ and their irregularly wide aisles and incredibly helpful human employees. There’s something mildly spiteful in the way his brother explains it, like he was perfectly capable of handling his own. Or something. He doesn’t know; his brain is boiling.

Sans kind of hopes that Grillby will come back. At least his warmth was nurturing, wholesome… Well, maybe not _too_ wholesome, Sans concedes.

Papyrus manages to get his attention when Sans hears the name ‘Grillby’.

  
“-Honestly, if I had known he had very little self-control, I wouldn’t have perhaps left him here, though I do think he’s got some restraint, just--after what I told him!! Maybe?? _Don’t_ come up?? Because it’s a very bad idea all things considered? How emotionally compromised you’ll be over the next forty to eighty hours?? It’s somewhat irresponsible. Slightly. Though he _did_ at least have the decency to look ashamed of himself!! I think. It’s hard to tell.”

Slightly. Yeah, maybe. Sans rolls over to hang his arm on the body pillow that’s blocking the open side of the bed. It eases some of the mild pressure on his back and coccyx. He thinks he feels a slight breeze. Did Papyrus bring a fan in?

His vision’s a little blurry, so Sans closes his eyes. His magic never really settled or dissipated, and it throbs between his legs. When he was alone in his room, he had fought with the urge to touch it. He doesn’t want to, even though his body is screaming for it, to be filled, to be touched… 

It just _aches._

Somewhere at the back of Sans’ head, he recognises that it’s suddenly gotten quiet. He cracks an eye open, but he doesn’t see much now with the curtains in place. He senses Papyrus hovering near the end of his bed and breathes out a weary sigh, like it’s everything he can do to keep together.

“I’m dying,” he barely croaks. He sounds like he’s been gargling battery acid.

Papyrus clicks his tongue like he knows Sans is being dramatic, but Sans feels a hazy bloom, a numbed and distant _Check_ like Papyrus can’t be too sure.

“You’re not _dying!_ You’re fine, just--” Sans can hear the impending waffling, because sometimes his brother can’t stand this kind of subject matter without gritting his teeth on most days. “--antsy! Verily so.”

Antsy. Antsy for _sex._ That pulls a startled chuckle from Sans, whom despite himself feels an embarrassed heat touch his already flushed face.

Mercifully, Papyrus beelines straight for another topic; “I brought a fan! And some chipped ice. And some gelato, fruit, and, well… you know!! Cold stuff, to beat the, erm…”

Heat. Nice joke. If Sans was in any condition to poke fun at himself, he would’ve added to that hilarious assessment with a few zingers of his own. Too bad he feels like hot garbage.

“`anks,” Sans barely manages to force out. He honestly doesn’t know if he can sit up to eat. He still doesn’t have any appetite, but he’s got to try.

He tries. It goes as far as he thought it would. Sans’ arms are noodly and weak, and pinpoints of prickles run down his legs to where he leans like a rush of needles. He hisses softly, because any other sound would be plain disgusting and Sans already hates himself for this. He keeps his gaze firmly planted between where his hands are, one on the pillow and one to steady himself on the mattress.

He can barely keep upright on his own, and sways until Papyrus comes closer to rest a hand on Sans’ shoulder. Sans radiates heat like a furnace. He’s always known his brother was cool, but Papyrus’ hand is chilly, even with the glove. A traitorous shiver crawls up Sans’ throat and snakes down his spine

“Sorry,” he automatically rasps.

Papyrus makes a noise of disgust, though it’s not directed purely at him. Just his body. Sans gives him a crooked grin when his brother sits down beside him and reaches for the bowl of gelato.

“You’re sweaty.”

“Yep,” Sans mumbles, aimlessly reaching for the spoon. “M’boiling. It sucks a lot.”

“I can only imagine!!” Which is more than Sans needs to know about whether or not Papyrus has experienced this before. He guesses not. Papyrus helps him to secure his grasp of the spoon and reaches for a towel. “How are you able to stand him?”

“`e’s warm, not hot,” Sans gravels out, and places a heaping spoonful of pistachio-flavoured gelato into his mouth. The shock is almost electrifying, the taste creamy and cold. He mutes the soft noise of appreciation of feeling something other than all-encompassing warmth, then Sans breathes out a sigh of relief when Papyrus carefully drapes the towel over his left shoulder.

“He’s comfy,” Sans continues despite himself. “He’s nice. D.. did you know that?”

Papyrus grimaces, but he’s indulgent. “Yes, Sans, I’m fully aware that Mister Grillby is nice.”

“He… he promised me,” Sans mumbles, and clumsily tries to shovel off another large spoonful of gelato. It looks more like he’s trying to chip away at an iceberg. “Uh… he wouldn’t.” He doesn’t look up to see his brother’s expression. “Y’know.”

Papyrus probably doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s a tic near his eye socket like he’s either trying not to laugh or flinch from the overshare. Still, he’s a patient guy, and Sans appreciates the company anyway.

“He is… very good at being a gentleman,” Papyrus finally agrees, though it sounds like it’s said from between clenched teeth. “Birds and-or bees notwithstanding.”

 _“Dude,”_ Sans interrupts, his face scalding hot. He flounders for a moment, trying not to give in to the dirty imagery that assails his thoughts. “Birds and-or bees aren’t happening.” Sans shudders with another mouthful. “N.. not like this.”

Papyrus seems to relax with that admission. Whether it’s from relief that there won’t be any awkward closed-bedroom noises between the two or the fact that Sans is resolute to keep celibate during his heat, Sans doesn’t know. Still, it gives Sans some form of reassurance.

It’s an ordeal to get food into Sans. After awhile, the gelato is far too cold and his senses are keyed up to eleven. The strawberries are too sweet, the cherries too tart. Even a few cubes of watermelon have his taste buds going haywire. Papyrus thinks that saltines might do the trick to even out the sweetness, but Sans is done with food. If he has anything salty with his heightened sense of taste, he might just go into shock.

Luckily for Sans, the best thing about all of this is that he has two people that love and care about him. It’s very clear that Papyrus is at a loss on what to do. From what Sans gathers in his haze, his brother continues to titter about little things, and flinches more than he normally does when he hears the crack of thunder overhead.

A small sneaky thought wriggles its way into Sans’ head.

Grillby isn’t fond of rainstorms, and he isn’t that great with the amount of electricity above ground. There are far more elements on the surface than underground, where Grillby was king. It’s far too ‘competitive’.

Maybe Sans can invite him up to comfort him. He doesn’t know if the whole shirt thing was real or a tease, but Sans does want Grillby nearby.

Maybe the food did something after all. There’s a hazy memory he heard somewhere that heats take up a lot of energy, but one is more susceptible to crashing. He definitely feels that. Still ungodly needy, but finally it feels like Sans will be able to fall asleep.

Sans automatically apologises when he’s jostled, and that’s when he realises that the fatigue’s hit him like the force of a freight train. Mercifully, Papyrus uses the towel as a barrier between Sans’ soaked shirt and his hand, and carefully tries to manoeuvre him down. Sans can’t quite coordinate, and Papyrus seems to be having trouble maintaining composure.

There’s a lull in the world around them, like Sans can feel something gently padding at his soul. There’s nothing there, just a heady ache that makes it difficult to think. What he does think is that he hears Grillby’s voice, and Papyrus replies. But that’s not right. Grillby is banished downstairs.

The thunder rolls above them. Sans can feel it reverberate in his chest, thrumming a sweet echo in his soul. He thinks that if he were to move his arm in a specific way, that it’d feel nice. He’s also aware that Papyrus is still struggling to keep him upright with as little physical contact as possible.

His legs aren’t helping, nor are Sans’ arms. He hears two words, “Heat crash,” though he’s not sure whose voice it is. Sans knows he’s heard that term before, but the thought of crashes brings to mind when he had teleported into Grillby’s kitchen to sneak behind him.

He’d gotten up close, wrapped his arms around the fire monster’s waist and trailed his fingers down, just to give Grillby a taste of his own medicine, for all those times when Grillby did the same to him. Sans hadn’t expected the startled noise that left Grillby’s throat, nor how vulnerable he’d been. All it did was shoot heat down to the base of his spine while Sans’ hands delved lower with Grillby’s quiet, urging plea-

Maybe he shouldn’t think about that just now. His senses are all out of whack, to the point where Sans thinks he sees a pretty glow and feels the flush of fire. Somehow, it didn’t register that Grillby is the one that’s holding him.

Simple words wash over him like a breeze, a gentle murmur that breathes ecstasy into Sans’ soul.

 _“It’s alright. I don’t mind it.”_ It’s not aimed at Sans. Grillby’s words are a little shy, but his voice is kind.

Cool hands are replaced by warm ones, and _oh,_ Sans finally feels like he’s getting his wish. He’s cradled in a careful embrace, flooded by warmth that’s just as envigorating as it is soothing. It feels careless when Sans tries to inch further into the fire monster’s arms, the sharp and warm scent of spices filling Sans’ head.

 _“Are going to change you into some proper clothes,”_ Grillby carefully murmurs, and Sans trembles because he can feel the fire monster’s mouth move against the uppermost side of his head. It’s the most contact he’s had in what feels like forever, and Sans almost keens. He’s so close to Grillby’s neck that he’s on the verge of giving him a kiss, as much as the exchange would hurt Sans right now. Sans doesn’t say a word though, just gives a bare nod against Grillby’s warm shoulder. He trusts him.

He’s comfortable but he’s also bashful, disgusted with himself. Sans doesn’t expect this of his brother, who helps to remove his sticky tank top. Grillby supports Sans by resting his hands on each side of his bare ribs, while Papyrus slowly pulls the offending shirt up and over his head.

It’s sticky, like jello that’s been in the fridge for far too long, or like warm and silver honey. It lingers. There’s a feeling of being exposed again, so Sans turns his gaze down to Grillby’s chest to preoccupy himself. It turns out that it’s a great way to keep busy, seeing as Grillby’s shirt seems to have gone missing from under his jacket.

“Aren’t you chilly?” Sans gasps quietly. He’s vaguely aware that at some point, he had looped his arms around Grillby’s neck and perched himself in the fire monster’s lap. Grillby’s also seated on his bed, which is step two in the whole ‘Grillby needs to fuck him into the mattress’ plan. Grillby’s got his arms around and secured under his femurs, his other arm and hand braced on Sans’ flushed back. Sans is all but leaning into him, starved for his warmth and touch.

Sans can’t quite figure out what Grillby is thinking, since anything his brain tells him right now has nothing to do with deciphering crypto-expressions from a living and breathing fireman.

So he pictures what he wants to see instead. Sans thinks of Grillby keeping very still, holding on by his fingertips as Sans explores his body. His pokerface is 100-percent legit, and every time Sans gets a reaction out of him, Grillby gets easier to read.

Of course, that’s not happening right now. Sans just stares, dazed, as his brother carefully mops up the sweat and silver fluid from down his back. His movements are slow, only applying pressure to soak it up. It’s a mess. The bed looks similarly disgusting, but that isn’t really Sans’ problem right now.

Sans’ problem is that he’s finally in Grillby’s arms and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can shudder and whimper pleadingly next to Grillby’s neck all he wants, and the fire monster will just have to deal with it, just because he made a promise.

Grillby’s good like that, but Sans also is keenly aware of the way the fire monster’s leg moves, almost as though in agitation. He’s antsy. Sans remembers how flushed his flames were, and if Papyrus wasn’t there, attentive as he was, Sans would probably call him out on it, because he’s bad like that.

Even now, Sans can feel Grillby’s warmth. It’s different from the heat, which burns every breath Sans sucks in. It’s a base kindle, soft and nestled right next to his soul. It’s comforting. Sans can’t deny that he’s taken with it.

He tightens his hold around Grillby’s neck, not wanting him to pull away. His face is nestled just right, cradled between Grillby’s neck and shoulder. Every breath Sans takes is full of him.

He knows Papyrus is finished mopping up the mess. He doesn’t want to think about it, but again, there’s no complaint from his brother. If he wasn’t crashing so hard, Sans would thank him beyond the vague noise that leaves his throat.

Sans feels pretty stupid for wanting to be by Grillby’s side so much. He’s not typically so needy, so starved for affection. Usually when Grillby gives him short kisses on breaks or sneaks a small touch here and there in his restaurant, it’s enough to make Sans shyly grin and want to hide.

Now he just soaks it in, lush, warm and comfortable. His body throbs at a low frequency, jarring as it is every part of him. His throat feels raw, like if Sans tried to speak, it’d turn out raspy and hoarse.

Maybe it’s the day catching up with him, the bare hours of sleep he had tumbling into his body by the brickload. He thinks ‘heat crash’ like it’s a scientific assessment, though skewed and uneven. He thinks that he’s heard it before, like one of those ultra-specific side-effects on medications that makes him turn his head and reconsider taking them.

But no, heat crash is when a monster doesn’t find a mate to burn it off, and it eventually recedes. Ultimately, it’s Sans’ goal. There had been warnings of it being uncomfortable, feverish, with very little to no sleep to be had. Aches, pains, soul wetness and persistent arousal. He hates it. And this happens more than once in a lifetime?

Deliriously, Sans hopes for some kind of stress in life so he doesn’t have to deal with this shit anymore.

 _“You with me?”_ Grillby’s voice cascades over him, both soothing and awakening his numbed body.

Sans answers with an unintelligent noise low in his throat.

 _“Want… cold?”_ Sans buries his head a little more against Grillby’s chest, though his arms slacken from around his neck. He’s vaguely aware that it’s not an answer. _“Need…”_ and Grillby can’t help the disgust in his voice apparently, because he barely spits out the word _“-water?”_ like it’d burn him instead.

Papyrus is suspiciously quiet, until he tugs at the bed sheets. “I’ll replace these. Can you lift him for awhile, Mister Grillby?”

Mister Grillby is suitably inclined to carry him on any occasion, Sans thinks, not just when his soul is so wet he could glide his fingertips through it like warm oil on one of Grillby’s fancy non-stick skillets. Sans tries not to entertain that thought too much and swallows thickly. He’s got a protest at his teeth, ready as though to say, no way, bro, don’t do that, it’s fucking disgusting-

But Papyrus is patient with him. He doesn’t explicitly tell him to shut up, but when Sans finally manages to turn his head, Papyrus’ grin is tight and his eyes sharp like any protest will be swatted away like bothersome flies.

Ok, then. Point made. He won’t argue. Instead, Sans lays his head onto Grillby’s chest, listening for the pulse of magic and the living core under those flames. Maybe sleep will come to him with its rhythmic beats, magic tingling at the side of his skull like a tender caress.

He’s about as cooperative as a ragdoll when Grillby pulls him closer to his body and eases off the bed. Sans feels secure, protected, warm, like it’s everything he needs in life. He also shifts his hips more towards Grillby, as the fire monster’s grip under his femurs is inviting and does stupid things to his brain. He tries to ignore the way his magic throbs, mimicking the beat of Grillby’s soul between his legs. It’s distracting, but not as bad as before. Or not as bad as he thought it’d be.

Papyrus pulls the sheets and protective layer from under them and grimaces to himself. He doesn’t make a noise and Sans is grateful for it, but he can feel Grillby get warmer. It’s like whatever he sees suddenly lays it on thick of just how riled up Sans is, and he doesn’t know what to think about that.

Mercifully though, Papyrus balls up the bedding and carefully sets it out of the way and lays a few hoarded towels from the floor onto Sans’ mattress. “It’s a temporary measure for now - until I can wrangle up more sheets. Honestly…” Papyrus sighs, like he’s about to scold Sans for it all. He doesn’t, but Sans kind of thinks that he’s got it in him.

His brother instead turns to Grillby, who’s still a little warmer than before. Sans can tell the difference, and while it’s not uncomfortable, it’s different - and his body likes it. His attention is fixed on the hand that’s cradled near his coccyx, a hand proprietarily laid upon his femur.

Just a little closer, and Grillby can help him.

Pitifully, Sans sighs against Grillby’s chest. He’s starting to feel sore at this angle.

There’s a silence, like Papyrus doesn’t quite know what to say or that Grillby doesn’t trust himself not to make any sudden moves. Sans grimaces on the inside, clenching his fist on the fire monster’s jacket for something to hold onto. Maybe if he just tries, he’ll fall asleep.

Then as quickly as tearing off a bandage, Papyrus blurts out, “You clean him up and I’ll go put a load in--of laundry, a nice, clean, fresh, non-intrusive cleansing, since I am the only one who can do it! Yes!! Because water for you would be quite terrible-”

Sans kind of freezes despite everything, his already flushed face burning hotter with embarrassment. He feels Grillby’s heat spike a little more, especially in his hands, and Sans sucks in a startled breath when it travels up his thigh.

In three long strides, Papyrus grabs the linens from the floor and makes for the door to escape.

They’re alone in the room. Papyrus did that on purpose. Sans doesn’t know what to think, other than there’s only his lucky pair of shorts between Grillby’s hand and his aching magic. He can bring him off in the way only he knows, skillfully, an orgasm shuddering through Sans as Grillby pushes love and care into his body.

Sans shivers a little as Grillby shifts his weight to one side, like he’s preparing to sit down again. His grip tightens.

“Are you gonna…” Sans breathes, and it sounds too desperate, too loud in the confines of his room. There’s a rumble in the distance of the storm tapering off, and the curtain above them shrouds the room in grey-black shadows where Grillby’s light doesn’t reach.

Grillby tilts his head so it rests against Sans’ skull, and Sans feels it like a jolt to his overclocked system. His fingers toy with the lapel on the fire monster’s jacket, idly playing with the button on the front breast. He’s stalling.

“Y’know…” _Touch me?_

Sans can feel it before Grillby starts to speak, like being this close to him is doing strange and wondrous things to his body. His heat feeds him as much as it drains him, keeping him alive and yearning for his boyfriend’s own warmth.

 _“No sex,”_ Grillby assures him, and Sans can’t help but feel a little disappointed, even though he was the one that made Grillby promise. _“I am… sure that meant that Papyrus was giving us privacy so that I may… be able to help clean you.”_ Grillby hesitates, and Sans looks up through his haze to see a flicker of amber and gold flutter through some flames. _“Make you comfortable.”_

There’s hidden promise for touch in those words, even though Sans knows damn well that Grillby doesn’t mean it in the way he hopes. Still, Sans can’t help the reedy way his breath shivers out when Grillby reapproaches the bed and sits to guide him down again.

Sans’ arms find Grillby’s, bracketing biceps hidden under his crisp, neat clothes. He trails his fingers down, feeling for things unseen, trying to convey that it’s entirely ok if Grillby wanted to help a little bit. That it’s alright, Sans changed his mind.

All he can focus on is the hand on his thigh, so when he suddenly feels Grillby’s other hand brace his spine between his shoulder blades, it floods through Sans like a pinpoint of pleasure. He can’t help the way he intakes a breath, so startled and surprised by the sensation that he lets out a soft “Oh,” like it’s driven out of him.

It’s like when Grillby nestles his pelvis close into his lap, and he cradles his sacrum with his hands, one on the top, one in the back, and slowly pushes flames between all the little holes where Sans can’t escape-

 _“Hff-”_ Sans bites off a swear before it can break off into a sob. His breath hitches, his magic yearning for Grillby’s touch. He’s just on the verge of both pleading and apologising, but Grillby carefully soothes him, removing his hand from Sans’ thigh once he lays him down on the fresh towels.

 _“It’s alright. I’m not going to do anything, Sans.”_ Somehow, the reassurance wounds Sans even more than the heat does. _“As he said…”_

“M’just s.. sensitive,” Sans tries to say, to brush it aside like he didn’t nearly come in his pants from Grillby’s gentle handling. “Coc.. coccyx, femurs, s.. spine.”

He peers up at Grillby’s face and thinks he sees some kind of smirk returned. Sans wants to wrap himself in the fire monster’s arms to keep away the cocktail of bad aches and soreness that he’s been feeling for the past couple days.

 _“Sorry,”_ Grillby offers, but it’s done so slowly and he leans forward in a way that urges Sans to invitingly lift his hips up. He tries to convince himself that it’s only so Grillby can have access to his pelvis to remove his shorts, to towel him down, _(to slip his fingers into his needy, slippery cunt and pump him full of pleasure.)_

_“Is this alright..?”_

Sans makes some kind of vague noise again like he wasn’t paying attention. Grillby’s got a towel in his hands, ready to drape over him. Sans wants to cover his eyes so he doesn’t feel as embarrassed as he is, but Grillby watching him with such a kind glow makes his soul overfull, wanted, loved.

He carefully releases the breath he’s been holding in a long sigh. “Yeah, fuck.”

Grillby smirks and lets out a crackling chuckle. _“Ever so enthusiastic, Sans.”_

Sans settles back against the mattress and sinks onto the nest of soft towels. Everything feels like it’s too much and he’s done too little. He grins despite himself, either to fend off how tender everything is, or to try and keep up his roguish demeanour.

So he lays back, enjoying the thoughts of Grillby between his legs as the fire monster drapes the towel he has over his pelvis. He doesn’t know why; Grillby’s definitely seen his magic formed before, although maybe it’s because Sans can’t do anything about it.

“Kinda mean t.. to be teasing me when I’m like this,” Sans shudders as he speaks, his words tumbling over themselves like in a cylinder. He lifts his hips again, unable to help himself when Grillby’s hands push under the towel.

He feels warm fingers search out his waistband and swallows hard on the knot in his throat, his soul pounding excitedly in his chest. So close, only _one thing left_ and Grillby promised not to take advantage, yet Sans still wants it so much that he could sob.

 _“I know,”_ Grillby hums in consideration. If Sans didn’t know any better, he’d say Grillby was affected by his heat too. But that’s stupid, considering… _“What else am I to do when you look like this?”_ _For me,_ Sans seems to think, just adding in his wants in little paraphrases within his head.

“I pr.. probably look like hot shit,” Sans huffs. He’s referred to himself as such previously, but it’s nothing the fire monster hasn’t scoffed at before.

But now? There’s a burning in Grillby’s eyes like he doesn’t want to look away. He doesn’t immediately chastise Sans for his phrasing, but he’s careful to pull his shorts down, stretching the waistband to keep Sans’ oversensitive bones from being rubbed too much by the fabric.

It’s too careful, too preciously considerate. Sans’ mind is having a field day with the way Grillby’s hands compliment his body as he lifts his hips again. It’s easier to pull his shorts down, then off.

Then that’s it. That’s all that’s between him and Grillby, his overly-aroused magic hidden by one plush towel. He’s completely naked.

 _“You don’t look as such to me,”_ Grillby murmurs, keeping his voice calm and smooth, but Sans detects something else. A slight waver to his flames that makes it hard to keep his breaths steady and his magic from burning too brightly. _“Flushed… very prettily.”_

Fuck. Sans doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows Grillby’s got a thing for his magic type, devours him and basks in the way he makes Sans blush, but nothing catches Sans off guard more than for the fire monster to tell him that it’s _pretty._ It disarms every word in his vocabulary, creating a knot of nerves in his chest.

Sans’ fingers dig into the towels at his side and he restrains himself, just barely holding on, to lean up and pull Grillby down. He craves attention, wants to give in and let Grillby show him how much he deserves to be treated. He _yearns,_ and it’s going to kill him at this rate.

As though to show mercy, Grillby pulls out from Sans’ personal space, and Sans sighs out as though he misses it. Grillby’s still got his hands to himself, but he holds Sans’ shorts like he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

“Flatterer,” Sans mumbles, just on the verge of giving in. He’s got to keep it together, until Grillby gives him a break. “You already got me outta my pants.”

 _“To help clean,”_ the fire monster admonishes with a smirk. It warms Sans’ soul to see that expression on him. _“If you’ll allow it.”_

 _Oh,_ Sans didn’t consider what that meant. To be fair, he’s not firing on all cylinders, and he had just thought that Papyrus was awkward around Grillby. Papyrus generally isn’t awkward around him, just a little jeering since Grillby tends to come over when he’s done manning the bar and Papyrus doesn’t like the smell.

But his smell now is crisp and warm, unique wholly to Grillby. Sans’ shame diminishes somewhat, wondering if cuddling is still on the table.

He nods, and Grillby gives him a moment to process things as they happen. Sans’ body is very much on board with how close the fire monster leans, his hands bracketing his hips to rest upon the towel. Sans shivers through a breath, his eye lights hazy. He anticipates the movements before the fire monster makes them, gentle pressing against the towel to help mop him down, giving gentle, firm pats to make sure Sans is dry.

He likes it. It’s much different than when his brother did it, where he could blank out the sensations. But Sans _aches_ for Grillby, and his heat permeates through the cloth to his aching magic.

He can’t help the slight noise he makes when Grillby squeezes his hips, and Sans closes an eye and clenches his fists at his sides as though to restrain himself from doing anything else.

It feels nice. Affectionate, comforting, creating small rivulets of pleasure that ripple up Sans’ spine and slink between his legs. He curls his toes to disperse the feeling, but it’s warm, soothing and makes his breath catch.

Grillby doesn’t say anything for awhile, but when Sans groans softly, he can feel the fire monster’s temperature spike. It makes his legs tremble, his face and joints flush with already strained magic.

“I want it,” Sans whispers. It shudders out of him, like Grillby’s already got his fingers in him, preparing to sink down into him to chase away the heat.

Grillby’s breath pauses like he’s waiting, debating, _considering._

Grillby’s a good guy, but Sans can’t help but feel that he was really fucking stupid to make him promise. He clearly wants him, heat or no heat. With the last few of his brain cells, Sans swallows hard on his decision, breathless and on the verge of frustration.

“Y.. your shirt,” he relents, as though that hadn’t been what he was pleading for in the first place.

A few brain cells fire off and don’t bounce off each other for a long minute or so. All he can feel is the dense heat between his legs, throbbing and slick. Grillby’s hands eventually ease, gently patting instead of their deep massage, as though the fire monster doesn’t trust himself not to tease anymore than he already has.

As though it’ll help him from staring off into Grillby’s eyes, yearning for touch and for affection, Sans slings an arm over his face to hide. As much as Grillby admires his magic, Sans feels too riled up, on the verge of tears.

“I’m gonna die,” he pants helplessly.

Grillby sighs out, long and hard and then his hands are absent from Sans’ body. It’s like he’s untethered, and Sans is going to float away if Grillby doesn’t hold him down.

As much as Grillby is a gentleman, he can also be a dog. It’s only natural to pick up some traits from his long time customers, and Grillby is as fiercely loyal as one gets. When he keeps a promise, he does it without so much of a show, but he must ache with how much he wants Sans. It’s the only reason Sans can think of that he would torment him so much by leaning down, one arm bracketing his shoulder to join him on the bed.

Grillby’s so close that Sans can detect the soft scent of charcoal, magic and savoury-sweet mesquite that has yet to burn away. It’s intoxicating in a way that makes Sans’ arm slip from over his eye sockets, and he stares helplessly at the fire monster and his self-restraint.

Grillby kisses him.

It’s sweet, but Sans yearns towards it like his forehead isn’t worthy to receive such a gift. Unbidden, Sans’ closest arm makes a grab for him, the need for contact too much to resist. His fingers tangle with the rough fabric of Grillby’s jacket, twisting it in his grasp, just _urging_ the fire monster to get closer. A noise is trapped in Sans’ throat, and he tilts his face up like he wants to kiss back.

But Grillby’s a dog. He cups the side of Sans’ flushed face, the surface of his body molten yet warm like the sun-beaten earth. He passes his thumb just over Sans’ cheekbone, igniting a flush and a stuttered breath like Sans can’t handle this anymore. Sans almost squirms, half under Grillby’s body like he wants. Grillby’s wearing too much clothing. He has too much restraint.

A direct kiss to exchange magic would be all that Grillby needs to be pulled down into the heat with Sans, but he’s gambled just this much. Sans doesn’t pull him down, but he comes damn near close when he latches onto Grillby with his other hand.

“You’re so mean,” Sans whispers, clear want in his wavering voice. “And such a dick.”

Grillby hums, an amused little thing that makes Sans starved for more idle touches. The fire monster rewards him with another gentle graze to his cheekbone, soothing the bone under his eye enough to make the surface flush with a pulse of hungry magic.

_“Only for you.”_

Sans can’t help the grin that cracks his teeth. “What, your dick?”

Amused despite himself, Grillby rolls up after a quick kiss to Sans’ temple. _“It’s… only going to get worse, you’ll find,”_ he says, as though he’s definitely not considering giving Sans what he’s asking for.

Sans’ laugh is breathy as he blinks up at the fire monster, who’s still in his personal space, still seated on the edge of the bed like he can’t keep away.

“That’s what practise is for,” he unashamedly quips. He can just barely make out the amused grimace Grillby offers him before the fires lick his expression away again. “S’rry. Trying not to be weird.” It’s not working. He’s losing grip on his self-control, and Sans finds that he doesn’t care as much if he says the things he wants. “Were y’joking about the shirt? Really?”

Grillby’s all smiles. The dog’s gone home and the gentleman has returned. Sans can’t help the way he sighs out when the fire monster eases up enough to pull open one side of his jacket. It’s like breathing takes a lot more effort, or he’s wound up that much. Of course it’s that. Sans is quickly losing the thread on rational thoughts.

What amuses him is that Grillby took off his damned shirt before coming back, but put his jacket back on. A shame, since Grillby’s body is a delight to see, and Sans can’t keep himself from staring at what little is offered to him. In the darkness of his bedroom, in the din of a thunderstorm with nothing but Grillby’s ambient firelight to let him see what he wants.

Just to do something with his hands, Sans clenches his fingers at the towels. His mind veers offside for a moment to offer him a pretty picture that plays off what Grillby’s doing: of Grillby laying down beside him, shrugging off the jacket as he goes, a heady warmth between them so every bit of Sans’ body is bathed in his natural light.

Flush crawls up his throat, beaming and bright, and when Grillby pulls something from under his jacket, Sans’ fingers ache with how tightly he’s formed them into fists. His eyes feel like they’re so hot that they’re going to water, and he barely rasps out a noise when Grillby unfolds the bit of fabric in his hands.

 _“Look… terribly uncomfortable,”_ Grillby murmurs, his voice soothing and rich. He lays the shirt open on top of Sans’ torso, covering up how worked up he’s gotten. Immediately, the scent of home and earthen spices fill Sans’ head, urging him to relax, to rest, _(to stop digging his heels into the mattress so Grillby can push deeper into him.)_

“Prob’ly,” Sans mumbles incoherently. His body warms under the shift of crisp dark linen, of fireproofed fabric that smells like coriander, clove and warm cherrywood. It’s homey and sweet, filling his senses so much that Sans can almost taste it.

 _“Wish I could do more for you.”_ Sans feels more than sees Grillby’s fingers on his neck, carefully thumbing a ridge of cartilage, gently like he intends to soothe him to sleep. The shirt tucks around him, warm hands smoothing over his bones to manoeuvre Sans with care so the towel can be lifted away. Grillby carefully unbundles Sans’ fists from the towel, urging him to relax his grip. Without fail, the bony fingers ease with Grillby’s caress. _“I promised.”_

Sans makes a vague noise of agreement deep in his throat. He’s barely being touched the way that he wants to, but he’s already so full of Grillby. Maybe it’s ok this way, with Grillby taking care of him. He knows that he’s crashing, can feel it sticky in his bones like broiling hot tar.

“`anks,” Sans rasps, still channeling his inner velociraptor apparently. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he feels comfortable - apart from the persistent ache in his pelvis. Something softer than a towel is brought to carefully dab at his spine and creases where his bones join, and Sans’ moan is soft and pleading. He barely moves to the side, wanting to give better access, but Grillby’s hand is steady and warm on his shoulder.

There’s a soft hush, a gentle reminder that he’s being taken care of. That Grillby loves him. That he’s safe. Sans thinks that fills him with some deep longing, especially now that his arms and legs feel like he’s being weighed down by the universe. He can feel the fingertips of Grillby’s hand gently curve down his temple, rub small soothing circles just over his eyes. Impossibly, Sans sinks further into the mattress, boneless and relaxed.

_He’s safe._

Then there’s a kiss, another murmured _“Love you”_ by the side of his head, and Sans falls asleep to the sounds of a comforting fireplace. He tries to make words cooperate, but they’re sticky on his tongue and he can’t muster the energy to spit them out.

But hey, _love you too, Grillby._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: evening


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans, feeling the sweltering effects of the heat, is subjected to a bath. Grillby is left on his own to help Sans, who ends up messier than before the bath started.

There’s a deep, oceanic rumble in his subconscious the next time Sans awakens. It beats at his temples, at every joint, as though every bone literally broils like molten syrup. He thinks he’s slept. It certainly doesn’t feel like it. Maybe snatches of slumber were caught, but Sans doesn’t think they were for very long.

There’s activity coming from downstairs. He missed his turn to drop the kid off. Their heavy footsteps echo around the downstairs floor, beating a tattoo that jostles every nerve and frame of magic within Sans’ skull. He feels a little detached from the situation. He’s got zero amounts of energy, like he’s just lying there, waiting to be picked up and puppeted around.

It’s like a game.

A rhythm game that makes his brain flinch at sudden noises and his joints ache with every reverberating step. It travels straight from the foundation of their house to pound at the base of his spine. It’s still raining, if the pattering on the skylight is anything to go by. He doesn’t hear the distant rumble of thunder. He doesn’t think that he can handle it. It feels like any more noise will shiver him apart.

And the downside of being left on his lonesome, drenched in sweat and other disgusting measures, is that he’d probably try to take care of himself if he didn’t feel like a meteor had struck him.

Grillby’s shirt has insulating properties. He’s not sure if that counts with his heat, but at least Sans is comforted by its scent. It’s like Grillby was there earlier, and he only woke up because he didn’t feel the fire monster next to him anymore.

And now…

Well, now he’s dying.

There’s a dense warmth under his eyes that pulls tears from his sockets, and every time Sans attempts some half-hearted movement his magic protests like a loud buzzer. Sometimes his vision goes slightly off to the side like he can’t focus, and his hearing blares like someone suddenly cranked the volume to every sound on the block.

The rain falls. The lights are dim, grey and cool. Sans lies in his bed for the better part of an hour, perhaps two, colours manifesting in a slurry of drunken haze when he tries to move his arm. Just a little. Just enough to press away the longing ache between his legs.

He passes out.

The heat’s too much for his fragile body. Sans thinks he hears the kid’s voice, but he’s not sure. Temperature and sound clash together like a cacophonous intersection and words veer across his mental highway, skidding on ice.

Ice would be great right now. Hell, he’d pay good money for a cool bath.

Someone’s talking. Maybe it’s Papyrus, Sans can’t tell. One of the voices is definitely the kid, sombre and indignant like they’ve been kept away for too long.

 _I’m sick, kiddo, sorry._ Sans blearily sends out the thought on a prayer as he finds his dominant hand. It’s somewhere near his hip, and his arm socket protests from the odd angle. It seems like he’s wedged his elbow into the sleeve, preventing any of his febrile attempts.

Great. Perfect. Now he doesn’t have the capability to move with what little strength he _does_ have, and Frisk is harping on about having another bath. Every time he hears the word blurred out between soul beats, he wants to nod. He wants to agree.

Some cold water would be great, yeah.

He’s parched. He attempts some form of speech, but his throat is as dry as sand. It hurts, like every pinpoint of magic is telling him not to bother, it can’t get it up. He can’t even entertain any wayward thoughts of intimacy like the day before. He just _burns._

Which means, great, this is the worst day of his life. Somehow, his brother manages to shoo Frisk away. A gentle hand rests upon his shoulder, his arm freed by a familiar soothing warmth. Then Sans is swaddled in soft plush towels as he’s brought up into steady arms. His body is as cooperative as a ragdoll, his head falling against a chest with a noisy clack that rattles throughout his skull. He makes a vague enquiry through the nuanced language of soft groans.

There’s a light crackle. Yep, that’s probably Grillby. Sense and form gradually come to Sans, but he can’t muster the energy to form eye lights, instead barely cracking his eyes open to scan the area. There’s a dense haze of light from just outside his peripheral. Fire, maybe? Sans can’t be sure.

He thinks _firefly,_ because Grillby will always hover around, shining his golden light upon him even as he sleeps. He’s like the cute bugs they’d seen their first night out, and the word is now a precious pet name to Sans.

He knows the number of steps to the bathroom from his room without even looking. Papyrus ushers Grillby to follow him there, and Sans makes out the cleary haze of light blooming over his forehead. He’s cradled close, too precious to drop. He feels warm, protected. He could sleep like this, no problem.

Grillby stops at the door to the bathroom and his arms tighten protectively around Sans. The brown-furred blur at his side follows in behind Papyrus, who’s similarly blurry to Sans’ overclocked senses. Frisk really does like to be helpful, even in embarrassing situations such as these.

Whatever. Sans can’t move. His arms are too weak, his hips too sore. His back aches like he’s twisted in his sleep or he tripped. He has a feeling that he’s lamented this before.

“Put him here,” Papyrus says in an authoritative tone, as though he believes his brother can’t hear him at all. Sans protests with another soft groan and Grillby’s arms tighten fractionally around his body. He hasn’t moved an inch, which is fine because Grillby’s really cosy.

It’s very clear that Grillby hesitates. They’re in the bathroom, which is a signal flare to everything the fire monster hates. Number one: baths. Number two: water. Number three: Sans indulging _water,_ because it’s not his fire and Sans finds his jealousy over the wetter element kind of endearing.

It takes awhile for Grillby to be ushered further into the bathroom, especially when the tub’s turned on. Grillby’s bad experiences with water have been mostly accidental or of the snow variety. Sans really wants to console him that no, it’s ok. Water is totally safe for him. He really loves Grillby’s heat, but he also feels like he needs to sit on an ice block for a long time.

Grillby is protective and possessive of him, so it takes some gentle, assuring coaxing from Papyrus that no, Sans won’t melt or burn from the water. It’s for his benefit. Sans can’t help the weak chuckle when Papyrus finally is able to get Grillby to come closer to the bath, then goes to usher Frisk out. As amusing as it would be for a tiny human to watch all the fuss when they’ve just started using a cell phone, Papyrus decides that it’s his turn to take them to school, which leaves Grillby in quite a predicament.

“It’ll be _fine,”_ Papyrus says in a hurry, like fire and water mesh perfectly well together. There’s a needlessly high note to his voice that’s not usually there that betrays what he really thinks. “There’s a hose with an adjustable nozzle! Just water him like a plant!! Blue for cold! Red is hot, green is for juice. Easy peasy!!”

Grillby must’ve given him an odd look, though whether it was from the colours or the notion of ‘cold’, Sans will never find out. He can just barely see Papyrus struggling with a very squirmy Frisk, who’s adamant on staying to help. Good thing Papyrus is a great brother and would only ever dream of embarrassing Sans when he’s feeling alright, not when he’s in pants-feelings mode.

With a final struggle, Papyrus lifts Frisk over his head and bounds for the door, all while the kid’s laughter peals out in uncontrollable bursts. They really love him - which is awesome, because Sans can think of no better buddy than his brother. He grins to himself, still cosy in Grillby’s arms. Then the hubbub carries on downstairs.

He can hear Grillby swallow, slowly, deliberately. Like he’s worried - or apprehensive, like when Sans sank to his knees in front of him for the first time. Sans swallows too, but it’s not due to a case of the nerves. His mouth betrays him by watering, craving Grillby’s taste. Sans exhales a hot breath and forces the mental image out of his head. Now’s not the time, damn it. His body doesn’t get the message, conveniently forgetting how to read.

Grillby doesn’t like water. A shock, really, but a life of handling the dreaded element - as well as living in a cold climate - had made Grillby more than a little wary. The faucet continues to dump out water by the second, but at least Papyrus had the sense to leave the tub unplugged so that it harmlessly circles the drain. There’s also a fancy looking board that looks like maybe it was used to read books or tinker with puzzles, but when Sans looks to it, he feels a wash of shame.

He’s not sure why, Sans just knows that he’s used that same plank to lie over while in the bath, soaking long and hot after a gruelling day of moving. He remembers the first day that he was finally able to relax, and he’d slept contentedly while draped over it.

He didn’t feel as exhausted then as he does now, but he’s willing to help Grillby out if it means getting to that same place of comfort with the person he loves.

Grillby just has a habit of… _moving_ when he’s decided to do something. So when Grillby turns, Sans’ breath catches in his throat, startled. He’s a flushed and sweaty mess but he squints up at Grillby’s face. He can see the awkward little smile that tugs at the corner of the fire monster’s mouth. An ebbing warmth in his soul urges Sans to lean up and kiss him and it’s hard not to listen to it.

He doesn’t, because he’s not that much of an idiot, but _god_ does Sans want to. He craves any kind of touch, to the point where Grillby’s hands resting under his legs and around his shoulders make his body hum at a low frequency. He’s drained by the heat, so when Grillby lowers Sans to remove the towels, Sans nearly crumples in a heap with most of his support gone. Grillby quickly adjusts his hold so Sans’ head doesn’t kiss the ledge of the tub.

Which would’ve been hilarious, but again, Grillby’s not keen on water and even less on injuries. That and with Papyrus’ car starting up in the driveway, he’s literally left on his own. Sans finds use of his hands, freed from their towelly prison, and he hangs onto Grillby’s arm as he tries to go for the tub.

“S’draining,” Sans observes in a haze. He doesn’t enjoy the feeling of a slick soul dribbling down his spine and hopes to have it rinsed away. He also craves the relief of how achy his body is. “Don’t worry, buddy… I won’t splash. I just need a hand. Or two, or-” _just push him against the tub and reach into his rib cage so he can have some fucking relief-_

He holds onto the ledge of the tub with one arm while Grillby kneels next to him. When he carefully removes Sans’ shirt, the inside glistens with silvery fluid. While nothing gives it away visually that Grillby’s flustered, the warmth of the room inches up again. Sans breathes out a soft laugh, caught somewhere between a sigh and a gasp.

“S’rry for your shirt,” he tries again, exhausted beyond all purpose. Grillby merely shakes his head and helps Sans to hang onto the tub with his other arm, because he’s a sweetheart like that. Then he slowly peels off the other sleeve and takes the shirt away, ensuring that Sans won’t lose balance and slip down the face of the porcelain. The strings of fluid that have leaked from Sans’ poor overworked soul break as the surface tension of it is brought too far apart. It’s gross, he thinks, face burning.

Now Sans is naked, which is step twenty-seven in the whole _Grillby needs to touch him right the fuck now_ plan. Sans knows that he won’t, but he can’t even look at Grillby now. Not especially when the fire monster warily eyes the tub’s basin, as though the water inside has a mind of its own and will jump out at him as soon as he looks away.

Grillby is such a kind and generous person. Sans loves him a lot. Which is why he hates that his body doesn’t cooperate when he tries to hold onto Grillby as he’s lifted from the cool tiles. Slower still is how Grillby lowers him into the tub, a sliver of cold water licking against his aching bones. The heat simmers in Sans’ marrow, keeping him pliant and willing to do anything Grillby asks of him.

So when Grillby tells him softly, a warm measured embrace around his ribs, _“Lean on this,”_ it throbs in Sans’ soul. It compels him to cooperate, to breathe Grillby’s scent so close to him. He feels Grillby’s devotion. _He’d do anything for him._

He’s guided forward. The wood is smooth, warm and dry, and Grillby takes great pains to make sure that he’s comfortable. He adjusts Sans’ arms to cradle his head and slips a small towel under his jaw for a pillow. It nestles against Sans’ face, warmth soothing and good. Then Grillby strokes the crown of Sans’ skull, a soft nuzzling caress lulling Sans to relax.

He’s peaceful. Even though Grillby has his reservations about bathing in general, Sans feels taken care of. Almost _pampered._

He watches through a sliver, heavily lidded eyes coaxed to close as Grillby works around him. Even with the water running, the simple sounds of his flames crackling and the trickling from the faucet lulls Sans into a sense of deep calm.

“S’rry,” Sans mumbles again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Grillby search for something that’ll protect him from any wayward sprays or splashes a little distance away. He notes that Grillby’s still close enough to help him if need be. “You’re too… nice…”

Grillby turns to regard him and beams. Sans likes the way his body reacts to the fire monster’s light chuckles. _“Being silly.”_

“Mmh…” There’s not a lot to say to that, so Sans sighs while Grillby lingers. Then, pressed to be helpful, Grillby goes to look under the sink for what he needs.

Sans isn’t quite sure if Grillby found what he’s looking for, but the fire monster reapproaches. He tries to look at him head on, but his body protests with everything that it can muster. He can feel slick magic fill into the next vertebrae down and Sans’ face burns at the reminder.

He doesn’t say anything, but Grillby eventually lowers his hand to take hold of the spray nozzle and then turns down the tap so it’s a bare dribble. Sans can just imagine the grimace that Grillby hides with his flames, just to make him feel better. He’s always had a thing for _his_ element being the one to fill Sans’ natural spaces.

Which is why it must hurt him when a bare shivering _“Oh,”_ passes Sans’ teeth as the cool water’s aimed just over his spine. Sans reflexively flinches because despite the shock, his body loves the way the water trickles down his back, through every crack and joint. It’s heavenly in a way Sans can’t put words to, and he’s trying not to react to how much he enjoys it.

It seeps into his overheated body, cooling what it reaches with sensual, liquid fingertips. It rinses away things better left unsaid. Sans’ body tenses, then eases, unable to push himself more into the water’s spray.

Grillby sounds like he’s being forced to eat insects when he finally mutters, _“…Better?”_

Sans sighs out, though he doesn’t want to. It feels good even though Grillby’s warmth is infinitely better. It’s only partially extinguished the heat inside of him, but it’s done nothing to dispel the magic in his pelvis nor the bruised aches in his joints. The silver lining is that whatever’s rinsed goes immediately down the drain. Grillby sees it, but the proof is literally washed away. Sans can deny it all he wants.

“Mhm,” Sans hums softly, and shivers again, out of his control when the nozzle is pointed a little lower. He hisses out a sharp gasp like it hurt instead, and Grillby yanks it away with a concerned snap of fire. Breathily, Sans tries to excuse himself. “S’ok… s’ok, firefly. Y’can’t hurt me like this,” he murmurs a little hoarsely. He sinks down against the wooden surface again, his spine an inviting curve. “`Lil more..?”

The heat’s trapped under his ribs like a bubble that won’t burst. Sans reopens his eyes to see a waft of steam curl just out of view, like Grillby’s attempting to blow it out of the way. He grins to himself, curling his fingers in slow, gentle, _needy_ fists as the fire monster tests the water’s flow to drop onto his shoulder blades from above. He thinks he feels the water heat up a little more.

That’s precious. Grillby’s getting a little jealous.

It cools down again when the fire monster seems to get a hold of himself. The best thing about it is that it trickles down his ribs, loosening what needs to be rinsed away. It’s gentle and just the right amount of pressure; any more than this and it might stimulate too much. It’d build up the sensitivity instead of slating it, undercutting the heat with a soft rolling river.

In short: it feels _really_ nice.

Sans hums out, savouring it. He’s really glad Papyrus ended up leaving with the kid. This would’ve been extremely embarrassing to keep back if his brother was pistol-whipping him with the shower hose. When Grillby does it, it’s gentle, sweet and soothing even though he’s sure he’s making wounded puppy looks at the back of his skull. Sans can’t help the shivering sighs and the creak of a soft whimper when Grillby tries to aim for the messier spots.

A plea stuck in his throat, Sans holds back another whimper when a wash of cool water rushes down his clavicles, ribboning down his chest. It patters onto the wooden board rest, dripping onto his wet thighs.

“W.. when this’s over,” Sans gasps, nearly pushing back into the cool, sweet water like he wants to feel it wash over his soul, “we’re gon.. gonna catch up.”

It’s not odd that Grillby’s silent, but Sans can feel his hot gaze on his back like a sight line. He swallows, huffing out another breathy sigh. “Making sure all the water’s gone, o’course.”

 _“Naturally,”_ Grillby replies smoothly with little hesitation.

Sans wonders where his brain went. Maybe with the last pass over the back of his skull it leaked out somewhere. He definitely wants to clarify that he’s totally up for some horizontal monster mash later, even if right now his body wants the pre-boarding special.

Sans snickers to himself. If only Grillby had a front row seat to the innermost workings of his mind. He’d get a kick out of all these jokes and innuendo. Too bad.

He tries to wrack his brain into cooperating, since it’s now come to his rather limited attention that passing out was probably a sign for something. He’s gotten a bit better at opening up to Grillby, but Sans still hides a lot of things out of habit.

“Hey,” he says, though he has to stop himself short of moaning when he feels a small spatter in the intercostal spaces of his ribs. He flexes his toes instead, trying to focus on the light to his immediate left. “First time… right?”

Grillby nods. Then he amends that to, _“So you’ve said.”_

Here is where Sans would fidget had he the strength. Instead, he just kind of lies on top of his support, drizzled on by a fire monster with water. It’s weird.

“Woke up before,” he says softly. “Is it normal to pass out..?”

There’s a measured silence like Grillby’s considering the weight of the subject, but he sighs out. Sans can feel it waft against his spine, making his soul bead up anew. He tries not to squirm. He’s sure that Grillby didn’t do that on purpose.

 _“Need more food,”_ Grillby explains. _“Heats are… extremely draining.”_

“Y’mean I can’t just blow this off by holing up in m.. my room?” Sans grumbles between another unanticipated shiver. He hears Grillby quietly click his tongue as though in chastisement.

_“Not quite.”_

“Don’t have much of an, _ah…_ appetite.” Sans tries and fails not to react to the new angle, it trickling down over his hip to skirt down one side of his sacrum. It’s only just bearable, but he can’t get off this way. He’s not sure if he should get off this way. Does that count as being unfaithful?

He’s being stupid.

 _Getting off isn’t the point of this,_ Sans’ rational mind witheringly retorts from the back puddle of his brain. It’s a losing battle. If not for the promise, Sans would’ve caved hours ago.

 _“Should still attempt,”_ Grillby concedes. _“Cinnabun… still fresh, if you’d like it.”_

Sans lets his eyes drift closed, flexing his fingers again when Grillby moves the hose’s spray up to pour down the back of his skull. The contrast between Grillby’s heat and the cool water creates a fine mist in the bathroom.

“Need something sweeter than that,” Sans says, hushed.

Fed into the lead, Sans can feel Grillby hover a bit closer. His heat is an instant tell. _“And what, pray, would that be..? I’ll give you anything.”_

Sans feels the traitorous blush bloom directly from his soul this time. It swells up, brightening his joints, like the tease isn’t something that should do it for him but here he is, done.

“I dunno. N.. nothing tops how sweet you are to me,” he mumbles into the crook of his arm. Lazily, Sans cracks an eye open. Grillby is most certainly in his personal space, and he’s actually got a view of him. He’s a sweet bright honey colour, gently burning with more warmth than Sans can stand. When Grillby blushes, his temperature rises and his flames lighten, even taking on different hues depending on how intense it is.

In short, Grillby is flattered at Sans’ little flirt. It even seems to flabberghast him for a moment.

 _“That’s rude,”_ is all he can scrounge up the nerve to say. He stays the beautiful shade of warm honey, which is great. It’s Sans’ favourite shade to turn him, next to the small flecks and licks of magenta and white.

Pleased with himself for properly flustering his boyfriend, Sans feels a stab of affection and fondness, unable to keep it at bay. The heat pervades it, longing catching up with him. He wants to bury his mouth into the crook of Grillby’s neck to taste his whispering fires and devour the secrets they tell him.

He sighs out, full of heartache. “I’ll take anything you give me.” It’s an invitation - consent, even. It doesn’t have to be food. Sans is content to have anything.

But Grillby… is a good guy.

He doesn’t feel rejection when Grillby chuckles at his reply, but there’s a light sizzle when Grillby hovers close enough to evapourate the water on Sans’ skull. He feels his soul tighten, like Sans expects fiery hands to reach between his sides and stroke up his spine. His breath shudders out, all hot want barely restrained.

God, he _wants him._

 _“Would that I could be such a scoundrel,”_ Grillby breathes against him, and Sans yearns in a way that he can’t possibly hope to understand. _“I could never betray your trust.”_

Sans loves him, but god, they’re both idiots. He swallows the sudden whimper that’s caught in his throat, wedged tight in there like he can’t spit out the words.

He knows the argument even before he says the words, “What if… you helped anyway.”

Grillby sighs like the man of patience that he is and leans away - not enough to pull out of Sans’ personal space, but enough to pass another chilly rush of water down his spine. Since he apparently needs to cool down and all.

_“And should either of us start to carry..? Believe we’ve had this conversation before.”_

Sans’ eye waters a little, torn between facing the truth of it all and his biggest fears. He closes it so he doesn’t feel the heat rise to his face. “What if that doesn’t happen, though.”

 _“I am not… pushing aside your advancements, Sans,”_ Grillby says gently, and Sans nods a little - to the best of his ability.

“I kn.. know, I know. It’s the heat talkin’,” Sans mutters wryly, just attempting not to sound as frustrated as he is. He sighs out, long and hard. “This’s why I hate promises.”

Grillby chuckles again, this time wryly. Sans can practically see his grimace even when he’s not looking at him.

When it’s time to turn off the faucet, Sans is a shivering mess. He’s not sure whether it’s because the heat is steadily eating away at his resolve and that he’s holding on by his fingertips, or simply because the shock of the cool water has made the magic in his bones jittery and unstable.

He nonetheless is thankful that Grillby is there to care for him. His arms are still noodly, so Sans has little choice in the matter than to submit to Grillby’s whims. Grillby just beams at him, humming softly as he gently dabs at Sans’ body to get rid of most of the moisture. The towel never gets wet. It stays toasty and dry in Grillby’s hands, like it’s fresh and soothingly-hot out of the dryer. It’s pure decadence, and it soothes Sans in a way the water never did.

There are still dribbles of water trapped within his joints, but they’ll be dealt with later. Grillby gathers Sans into his arms, not even worried that he’s naked and flushed. He’s fine to take care of him, to treat Sans with patience and kindness until he feels more like his usual self.

He takes Sans back to his room. By the looks of things, Papyrus has been there; more of his impressive speed-cleaning, no doubt. Grillby is just as bad as Sans and left the soiled clothes in a heap in the bathroom until the mist goes away. He carried a towel in with them, so Sans can lay on something else.

But Sans doesn’t want to lie down anymore. His room’s thick with the residual feelings of desperation and longing, so he clings to Grillby as he’s sat down on the towel on the bed. His arms just rest at Grillby’s shoulders, keeping him, holding him near. He uses him for leverage, as his coccyx is still sensitive.

“C’n we go downstairs,” he whispers, raw want in his voice.

 _“Not naked,”_ Grillby retorts, though his tone is warm and fond, and Sans gives in to a rough laugh.

It’s hard to keep back the urge to tell Grillby to touch him, to kiss him, that he misses everything he’d normally tease him with. It’s strained and even though Grillby had promised, Sans feels the tension in the fire monster’s body like he’s unable to help himself. Like if Sans were to keep pushing, he’d eventually break under the pressure.

But then again, Grillby’s not like that. It wouldn’t be fair to him. It’d haunt him, and Sans wouldn’t want Grillby to have regrets. Consent and all.

He sighs out, a warm hand secure on his shoulder while Grillby reaches over to the nightstand where the neglected cinnabun rests. Sans had forgotten about it, like he’d forgotten his appetite. He was just absorbed in fighting off the heat.

It’s intimate in a whole other way for Grillby to care for him like this. He’s not Falling Down, not sick, nor incapable, but Sans isn’t well. He brings it close, taking care to make sure that Sans’ body doesn’t lean forward too much to make him slip, and Grillby holds the swirl of sweet bread and icing to Sans’ mouth like it’s a life-saving elixir.

It shoots through Sans like pop rocks, his magic instantaneously latching for it before he even parts his teeth. When it hits his tongue, it explodes in a familiar yet electrifying pop of cinnamon, sugary sweetness and intent all wrapped up in one. It’s like a shot of pure adrenaline, spiked into his soul to feed his entire body.

And with it, the heat swells up like a tidal pool and Sans can’t help the bare whimper that’s stuck in his throat as a result. His eyes water, stuck in a fog.

 _“Too sweet?”_ Grillby enquires, and Sans feels his face burn with shame. Even with the bun held to his mouth, Sans gives a slight shake of his head. _“Or… too much?”_

Sans parts his teeth to sink into the soft bread again, though he doesn’t quite know how to process the intent behind the gift. He makes a soft sound when the intent _really_ sinks in. It’s probably more than likely that Grillby was worried when he found out that Sans was unwell. That he had packed so much goodwill and hope into the buns during their handling, and its potency smacks Sans upside the head as a result. As he rests between the silence of the first bite and the next, Sans lets the sugar melt on his tongue before his magic pulls it away as quick as it possibly can.

Ok, so maybe he’s not hungry but his body will definitely take anything it can get. Cinnamon _definitely_ reminds Sans of Grillby’s taste, and he’s so close to kissing him…

“S’good,” he says softly, just as Grillby takes the bun away to inspect him. He almost coughs on the residual hiccough of magic. It’s like he’d inhaled food too fast or choked on a drink because he was so incredibly thirsty. “I missed it.”

 _“Do let us know if you feel weak,”_ the fire monster gently admonishes, like Sans had done so on purpose. Fair; Sans ignores a lot of his body’s signals just because of how shitty it is ninety-eight percent of the time. _“We’re here to help.”_

 _I’m here to help,_ Grillby’s flames seem to whisper and Sans shivers for another reason entirely. _Just ask me._ Grillby’s thumb braces his shoulder, stroking his clavicle in gentle, soothing circles. He’s not being a dick on purpose but Sans shudders out, it lodged deep in his chest like it can’t escape.

He leans forward. Grillby easily holds his ground. He can restrain Sans if he needs to - not like he’d have any reason, but he has seemingly infinite amounts of patience as Sans weighs the pros and cons of pulling him down into the heat with him. He wants to hold onto Grillby’s shoulder, to pull him close and slide his tongue against the crack of Grillby’s mouth. He wants to taste more than cinnamon. He wants it all.

Which is why it’s _agony_ when Sans manages to pull away, but it’s like his soul yearns towards the fire monster in its own right. It’s like agonising for sunlight for all his life and refusing that first step out into the open. Or like his magic can’t draw in air to replenish itself after being submerged for so long.

 _“Downstairs, you had said,”_ Grillby offers, although the pause speaks volumes. While the fire monster is usually silent, Sans has learned a lot of nuance behind every gesture and deliberate look. Like it’ll satisfy, he pushes the bun to Sans’ mouth again. He’s grinning slightly. Sans likes it when he gets to see a peek of the devil under that prim and proper exterior. _“Before I break.”_

Sans somehow finds the use of his arm, which is a godsend because Grillby holding food to his mouth is embarrassing enough without the cornucopia of shame Sans already feels at that moment. His other hand is tight on the cording of the bare mattress, physically keeping Sans from leaning even more forward.

He’s naked.

And nothing’s happening.

Grillby is respecting his boundaries. In the past, Sans has made it clear that he’s not ready for kids. Grillby accepts that even to this day and makes sure Sans isn’t vulnerable as a result.

Sans loves him. He flushes right down to his clavicles, heated magic burning in his joints as he takes another replenishing bite of the cinnabun. The sweet gooey icing and the cinnamon brighten his energy levels, though with it comes a roaring drone in his head. The heat claxons behind his eyes, buzzing like cicadas.

He hasn’t been sleeping. Not well, at any rate. It’s been the longest few days of Sans’ life, and it’s not even over. And it’s only going to get worse, huh? He doesn’t know how that’ll be, since Grillby’s staying by his side. And well… how bad could it be with his boyfriend there to help him? Sans holds a fondness in his soul like he has for no other.

He relinquishes the bun to Grillby, not wanting to waste it if he’s only going to crash downstairs on the couch like he’s got planned, but Grillby refuses, urging him to finish it. When he’s sure that Sans can sit on his own, he drifts away to search for some clean clothes.

“If you really wanted in my drawers that badly-” Sans snickers roughly, though the innuendo isn’t helping. He lets the joke drop but he’s pleased he gets to see Grillby’s brief grin.

It feels odd to be left on his own when the last few days have been nothing but support and cautious handling. He trembles a little where he sits, like he’s unstable. His arms aren’t cooperating still, and his coccyx throbs when he attempts to sit down all the way.

Grillby knows how he is. Generally he’ll put up resistance, stubbornness and just enough ire to deny anyone’s help. He’s not an invalid, but Grillby offers to help anyway. With him, it’s like Sans can ask if he wants to. He can do this.

Grillby manages to find a old pair of worn sweatpants, which is great because Sans’ body intends on sweating up a storm. The fan on the bedside table isn’t even registering as relief anymore. It’s just making Sans feel hot and stagnant, living at the back of someone’s throat. It’s disgusting. So much for the cold rinse, Sans bitterly thinks.

_“It… might do to dispel the…”_

Belatedly, Sans looks down. He knows what Grillby’s referring to, yet the fire monster looks anywhere but Sans’ pelvic girdle as he takes a seat on the chair next to the bed.

Sans’ grin grows a little crooked. “The what?” He likes to make Grillby squirm sometimes. It’s fun. To be fair, Grillby teases him a whole lot more.

Grillby’s smirk inches up a little, though Sans can tell that he’s a bit embarrassed to be called out on it. Funny, since Sans is the one going through the whole ‘heat’ thing.

 _“Scoundrel.”_ There’s a hint of fondness in the fire monster’s voice that makes Sans want to curl up in his lap and melt into his hot hands. _“Your…… assets.”_

There’s something devilish in Sans’ brain that wants to say, no way, _I made this for you,_ but he doesn’t want to say anything that he might come to regret later. He knows Grillby well enough to know that he’d enjoy the joke, but Sans’ “haha, unless?” attitude is going to get him into trouble at this rate.

No, instead he suddenly barks out a laugh because he’s a mature adult and Grillby dodging the word ‘pussy’ is fucking hilarious. Sans shakes his head. It’s been there this entire time without so much as a how do you do, a drain on his magic without even a hint of a touch to sate it.

Now that it’s called to attention, Sans’ thoughts are off-kilter. A little wild. A lot ashamed. He grins despite himself, a listless version of his own expression, flushed bright and eager thanks to the energy the cinnabun brought.

“Y’don’t mean that, do you..?” he murmurs lowly, the words almost caught in his throat. Grillby tilts his head, though he can’t help but smile. It’s so rare that Sans lowers the register of his voice that he mainly saves it for intimate moments, so the fire monster is fully aware and Sans has his full attention. “You said you’d help me.”

It’s a lingering whisper and Sans knows that it isn’t fair. Unfair still is how much Grillby’s physically keeping himself back. He knows he offered, but that was _before_ Sans told him ‘no sex’ like an idiot. Sans is weighed down by his heat, finally curled into the corner of his own psyche like a man beaten. He wants it all.

So that’s why Grillby’s very careful in how he replies, because Sans knows he wants him. Sans _knows_ how hard it is for him to keep his hands to himself. He’s playing dirty pool, promises be damned.

Sans knows he’s a cheating cheater when he leans in, feeling the way Grillby’s warmth stutters with how hard he’s trying to keep cool. He can almost feel the traitorous throb of Grillby’s soul, wanting nothing more than to trace his fingers around where it lies under Grillby’s chest. It would be hilarious if he wasn’t so parched, so hungry.

“It’s been awhile…” Sans continues, like if he keeps talking maybe, _just maybe,_ Grillby will fold like a cheap lawn chair. “Yesterday morning, when you tucked me in… gave me that kiss…” He breathes in long, inhaling the crisp scent of Grillby’s clothes. Of _him._ “Been longer since we did anything. And… it was _mean_ to give me such pain.”

He can hear Grillby swallow. There’s a detached kind of satisfaction, wrapped up in a smug fog at the centre of Sans’ chest. His soul quickens the longer Grillby hesitates, and Sans tries to press his luck.

“And I’ve been thinkin’ about you all this time,” he tries, maintaining the seductive lull in his voice. It’s effective even with how shaky it is. Like the beginning of the break, Grillby’s hands find Sans’ hips, a warm welcome that radiates down to his femurs. His magic stirs longingly and Sans breathes out a soft chuckle like he knows Grillby’s struggle all too well. “Can’t seem to keep myself from rehashing all th.. the times we had fun, y’know..?”

Grillby seems to snap out of it. Sans can see it in his eyes. His fingers flex onto his hips like Grillby’s testing the bone and the breath Sans inhales is sharp and startled. A throb of want pumps throughout his soul and Sans can _taste_ how much he wants to kiss him.

Like he’s parched himself, Grillby swallows and forces himself to look anywhere else but at Sans. _“And you call me the devil,”_ he shakily laughs. _“Pain… is unusual. Are you quite sure?”_

Damn Grillby. Sans can’t lie to him this way, but he shudders a breath anyway, because he was so close to convincing him, Sans just knows it. He’s of two minds to say, yes, he’s in actual pain without Grillby’s dick inside of him, but a part of Sans knows that’s ridiculous and Grillby would probably laugh at him. On the other hand: he is literally, actually dying, and his bones and magic ache with how much he craves to be touched.

So it’s not without swallowing a little of his pride that Sans manages to sigh out, all hot nerves and longing, “Doesn’t hurt, but…” He rests his forehead against Grillby’s warm chest, because that’s it. He’s dying from shame, horniness and sheer self-restraint. It’s like trying not to breathe underwater when he’s stayed down for too long.

 _“Unbearable,”_ Grillby finishes, and Sans wishes he’d _literally_ finish him. He gives the crown of his skull a gentle kiss, and Sans folds into it like he’s trying not to twist more into Grillby’s arms. _“I know.”_

Frustration beads up inside of Sans’ body like hot steam on a window pane. He can feel it trickle down his back. He doesn’t say anything, but he inhales another sharp breath when he attempts to dispel the magic in his pelvis.

It’s uncooperative with Grillby’s hands there, so close yet so far, unwilling to help. Grillby’s comforting warmth works against him as the magic coils uselessly upwards, back to Sans’ soul where it belongs. Like a leaking sieve, a few hot droplets patter down from his soul, slick and wet, to land on his enflamed coccyx. There’s no pain, but it aches like a _bitch._

“I can’t…” Sans nearly groans out in aggravation. He’s too wound up, two, three days of zero relief and self-actualised teasing. He leans forward a little more to relieve the pressure from his tailbone, a weighted gasp escaping him when he comes up short. Thankfully, Grillby has sense enough to catch him before he face-plants out of his arms.

He has no control over his magic. If he did, he wouldn’t be in this mess because he would’ve just pushed the heat away so it didn’t affect him. Life rarely works out that way, and Sans ends up releasing a frustrated little sob at how helpless he feels because of it.

 _“It’s alright, Sans,”_ Grillby says as he holds him, because while he’s not _the_ Angel, he’s heavenly and celestial and, god, _Sans loves this patient idiot. “Focus for me?”_

 _For me_ is a phrase that has special, wondrous properties to Sans. It makes his soul clench tight, primed to give everything it has at Grillby’s command. He chokes out on a noise that Sans can’t quite identify, because Grillby’s hands have made it back to his hips again.

A promise.

No sex. No carrying of soul fragments. They’ll be safe. Doesn’t mean that Grillby won’t help him at all, does it?

Eagerly, Sans’ legs shake, trembling in the quiet that follows. He thinks he detects a spread of warmth, of a small healing pulse that drums into his ilium and up his spine. He tenses before he feels another throb, of Grillby keeping entirely still, taking strides to keep the flow of magic a steady stream instead of a heightened pulse.

 _“Ah-”_ Sans can’t help it; the noise just slips out of him. It thrums down into his marrow, filling him with soothing comfort as well as building pressure. It’s uneven, like Grillby’s having a hard time keeping focused. The breaths Sans starts to take are slow and deliberate, his exhales tight and fast. It’s healing magic, which burns throughout him like a sudden storm, both calming and igniting. Sans breathes out a wet gasp against Grillby’s torso. _“Fuck, agh-”_

It won’t be enough. It builds up and up, chasing a ceiling that keeps rising despite Grillby’s efforts. It’s like everything he does isn’t enough, and Sans clutches at the fire monster’s jacket to keep him close. His voice wavers because some part of him is tense from the mere fact that the door downstairs could open at any moment.

His voice cracks. He wants more. The bubbling, broiling heat inside of him feels heavy enough to burst. Healing magic doesn’t do what he wants it to, only makes him hypersensitive and hot. Sans twists Grillby’s lapel in his shaking fist, burying a wordless, desperate plea against his chest.

 _“Go on,”_ Grillby murmurs, like he’s got a figurative ear open for the door. His voice is a little rough like after they tussle. _“Get it out of your system.”_

Sans knows he doesn’t mean come like his life depends on it, so he tries not to. He tries so desperately to dispel the agitated magic between Grillby’s hands, biting back whimpers and trying not to rock his hips. He curls into the fire monster’s chest, his gasps hot and heavy like he can’t breathe.

Healing magic never felt so _good._

Like an elastic band snapping, Sans buries a cry into Grillby’s shoulder, a rolling ebb to the magic in his pelvis dispersing with intense abruptness. He thinks he feels a deluge of something hot and wet flow down his lower ribs, the heat’s bubble finally burst. Just as Grillby moves to grab something from the bed, Sans sags against him, drained and utterly unhelpful.

 _“There you are,”_ Grillby murmurs against his head. He’s taken to rocking him just a little, careful not to agitate how overly sensitive Sans’ body has become in mere minutes. A warm towel’s pushed between them just in time to catch the dripping from Sans’ poor overworked soul. _“I have you. Good job.”_

Sans doesn’t think he’s ever been praised for having an orgasm, but his brain is barely alight with the sound of reasoning. He groans softly, earning himself a soft hush and a warm, comfortable hand draped over his back. He hangs bonelessly over Grillby’s other arm. It’s the one that has a towel soaking up how riled up he’d gotten over the stimulation. It’s nice. Grillby’s nice.

The heat doesn’t subside, but it’s a little lower than before. It kind of feels like the earlier morning, when Sans felt safe and cocooned in Grillby’s arms. It’s supposed to get worse, which is probably why Grillby caved. Sans doesn’t know. His body is stupid. He really liked that and half wonders if he’s gonna think about Grillby healing him to orgasm every time he has to go to the doctor’s now. That’ll be awkward.

But that’s a problem for future Sans, he decides. As his atoms gradually drift back into place, collecting in one spot, he blinks wearily up to Grillby’s face. He’s still that endearing bright honey colour, a sunlit amber with a wry grin on his face. Sans isn’t sure if he’s got it in him to say words, but his tongue doesn’t do him any favours. He figures he owes Grillby a ‘thanks’ at least, but he can’t muster the energy.

When Grillby discerns that the towel he’s using has soaked up all it can, and now no longer can be discreetly put into the laundry machine, he carefully manoeuvres Sans to lay down on the bed. Sans currently feels like his entire body is thrumming instead of just his coccyx, but he complains anyway since that’s what he’s good at. It’s a nonsensical little noise that gets Grillby to give his forehead another kiss. When he makes the same noise only croakier, Grillby cups his face and gives him a gentle pat.

His voice is soothing and washes over Sans in gentle waves. Grillby wipes him down with another dry cloth, even going up the inside of his ribs to ensure that he’s fully dry before tackling Sans’ pelvis. He takes great care in not agitating any more than he already has, but little aftershocks pull soft hums from Sans’ throat.

Eventually, Sans finds himself dressed. Grillby’s very good at caretaking, especially since he’s had lots of practice. Sans can just lie back and let himself be pampered, listen to Grillby’s soft rolling fire and his gentle murmurs. Sans hums back after a long while, like Grillby can understand what he means from it. Sans certainly doesn’t.

Now dressed in a pair of worn sweatpants with an assortment of small hand towels and one of Sans’ oversized cereal brand t-shirts, Grillby gathers Sans into his arms. He does so after getting rid of the evidence in the tub, rinsing it out to the best of his abilities using the faucet and a back scratcher.

Sans is warm. There’s a lull between the stairs and when Grillby has him on the couch next to him. He’s not even bothered to help keep himself from slipping out of the fire monster’s arms, but it’s fine. Grillby’s got him.

Sans is dozy, barely affected by the worst of it. He’s curled up next to Grillby on the couch, strategically placed sheets and blankets under him for his comfort. Sans shudders a little when he feels light fingertips trace the lines of his neck, carefully steaming out the water that remains in his joints. He sighs out, long and relieved even when it’s a bare fraction of how he normally feels.

Grillby’s got him. He’s got company. He’s being touched, being comforted and looked after. The television’s on low, something mellow so it doesn’t affect his calm. Grillby’s thigh is cushy, the perfect pillow under his cheek. When Grillby lifts his hand away from Sans’ throat, it’s only for a moment. Sans thinks he hears paper rustling like in the pages of a book. Then the hand returns, a thumb idly soothing and warm as it resumes its idle petting.

No heat. Just warm. There’s a rising pressure forming like the bubble is starting to return, but he’s comfortable. He’s gonna let his body recover. He’s going to let Grillby touch him how he wants to. Despite how tortured by touch Sans is, he’s _happy._

He’s safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: :3
> 
> ((Sans gets some very small relief but it's not sex so the tag stands. ;D))


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans is nearing the end of his heat, and while he's full of affection for Grillby, his soul full and feeling uncomfortable for another reason. Grillby offers relief how he can, and Papyrus is good at making sure his magic reserves are on the up and up!!

It’s nice to be cared for.

Sans dreams that he’s wrapped in comfort, with soft, careful hands soothing in their exploration. They’re gentle, with all the sensual licks of a longing kiss, though too close to be chaste, it’s too short to be considered anything more. Somewhere deep inside of him, his soul is heavy and swollen like a bruise. He shudders out a breath, aching, _needing_ to be touched.

He is. Eventually, but not as quickly nor with nearly enough pressure. He doesn’t move, trapped in a state from one dream to the next, large voluminous bubbles trapping him in their little worlds.

In one, he’s soothed. He’s comforted by a light and airy flame that he’s oh so used to. The fire is enough to spark to life great fondness from deep inside of him, both restless and anxious. It tremors, but he’s coaxed out of hiding, out from pushing away.

Fire gives form to hands, simple yet complex, gradually tracing every curve of his neck like they have all the time in the world. They like it there, though there’s nothing mischievous in the way they idly play. They map out his form, gentle warmth and comfort seeping into Sans’ heat-weary body like he has never felt before.

Soothing. Gentle. It’s like a pressureless massage, sweet and right. The aim to convince him to relax is all there, curled up and nestled in his soul like his favourite secret.

_He loves me._

He cherishes the feeling. It keeps him level, a bright happiness inside that makes his soul flutter whenever he thinks about it. Grillby comes to mind when Sans thinks of the sunset, his beau, the light of his life. He’s spoiled by him, made to believe kindness rests in others, that he can be treated well and that nothing bad will happen to him.

It’s honesty that Sans never thought he’d know, when the only one he could trust was his brother up until he had allowed himself to care. Until gradually, he allowed himself to be guided away from the path that he’d been walking alone in the dark for all this time.

A shining light, as corny as that sounds.

That’s Grillby.

Sans admits to himself that he cares deeply for him. They’re tied together, happy, that sensation amplified by their life on the surface. They’re safe despite all their struggles. Grillby has a new light about him, as silly as that is to entertain. He’s genuinely _happy._ And Sans couldn’t ask for anything more.

That’s when he gradually dips into a lower bubble, where quiet fears fester in terrible cacophony. He worries that Grillby might resent him just a little for not being ready for a family. Sometimes Sans lies awake at night when he thinks too hard about it, wondering if he’s selfish or if he’s being greedy, like he secretly wants Grillby all to himself. Or that he’s afraid for whatever unknowns that might happen to the little fragments that start life should they try-

The temperature rises, like the heat that scalds Sans’ waking moments punishes him for daring to think throughout his aimless sleep. It’s lucid when Sans doesn’t want to be. He thinks he hears a murmur, a careful enquiry that launches out of the darkness like a bubble from the bottom of a lake.

He knows the voice as intimately as he ever could, like it’d been whispered against the side of his skull. Whether or not it’s meant for him, it makes Sans drift along in amiable enough slumber. Rapturous warmth takes hold of him, his soul giving a shuddering squeeze like it’s trying with all its might to propel him to waking consciousness.

God knows it is. Sans can feel it even as he struggles to stay dreaming. He’s quite fond of this nondescript sunset area. It’s like those first few months of courtship, watching Grillby from afar in snatches of stolen moments. His own private sky, his sun, his light.

_His perfect star._

He wants him near. A mere memory isn’t enough for him to be able to ride out this heat on his own. A deep unsatiated hunger lies beneath where this sunset-filled aura bleeds out, depthless and seething like a black expanse of hot tar.

It’s in his bones. Sans can feel it, sticky and hot as his soul tries hard in its desperation to get things going. He silently prays that he’ll be able to sleep through the worst of it, but he’s not sure if it’s going to hash out that way. To be honest, he’s not sure what to expect. ‘Unfathomable discomfort’ comes to mind in a titleless book at the back of his brain, on an empty web page buried in the intranet of the Underground.

Stay at home. Be with family. Keep safe.

He’s safe.

Sans tries his best not to move, but his body fools him into thinking that it’s slipping off whatever surface he’s lying on. He’s not necessarily face down, but Sans can’t quite fathom the orientation he’s in. All he knows is that there’s a definite thick and hot wetness collecting under his ribs that forces him to move. His mouth is dry, his throat sore. If he didn’t know any better, he was sick. There’s a lick of excruciating heat that sprawls up his spine like a whip, forcing him to tremble with the agony it brings.

He’s gotta have a fever. Sans doesn’t remember if he had one before, but he attempts some half-hearted movement. He’s rewarded with a flare, a wave of prickling needles that arcs up his back. He huffs out a breath to brace himself for a wave of pain that never comes. He’s not sure if he can do that again and he had barely even tried.

The hand that rests on his back is familiar. Sans can’t quite gauge the temperature, but he knows they’re taking care of him. He can’t figure out where exactly he is. He’s not sure if there’s a pillow under his cheek or if it’s still Grillby’s thigh. He isn’t sure where the rest of his body is.

More hushed words are uttered, along with a light murmur. Sans cracks open an eye, the one that’s not buried by a cushion. His breaths are bare, his chest overfull and sensitive like one more drop will tip it to overflow. Punished for even thinking about it, his soul squeezes hard again, making him choke on a soft noise.

_Why does it hurt..?_

Whatever he sees, it’s nothing. It’s not a lack of sight; he’s been through that before. His eyes have watered so much that he can feel it as hot trails slip down his face to meet with the pillow. Colours swarm his line of vision, making him nauseous and want to whimper. Whatever residual healing magic that was in his body is long gone now. Sans can’t feel anything but a relentless, agonising fever.

He remembers Grillby’s concerned voice and a warning; _it only gets worse._

God, he’s an idiot. Why did he make Grillby promise, again? This is torture, a sure-fire way to kill himself - and stupidly, at that. Through his fever, Sans wonders if he’s finally reached his limit, that maybe he’ll break if Grillby doesn’t help him. He tries to move again, and his magic burns in protest. He’s not sure if he’d be able to spare the energy needed to move if Grillby even needed him to.

There’s a familiar presence. He knows it well by now. It’s a light touch, ethereal and soft like it’s barely there. He knows the sensation, the careful whispers like anything else Grillby shares with him.

_( … w … a … r … m … )_

Yeah. That sure as hell is an understatement. Blearily, Sans tries to open his other eye, to try and sort out the whole lack of vision thing. It goes about as well as he expected. And by ‘as expected’ he means not at all.

_( … h … o … t … )_

Yep… that too. Sans sighs out. It’s like he’s got a nest of glowing irons tapped into his spine instead of ribs. He coughs. Whimpers when he can’t get the words to form. When he detects another presence, something brushed over the side of his face, Sans can’t help the little pleading sigh like it’s everything he wants and more. It’s _just_ out of reach, so close he can taste it. It curls ribbons of minerals against his teeth, sharp magic sending another heated throb straight down to his soul.

Oh, that’s why.

He can detect it now. There’s food in a bowl nestled close to him to ensure that his magic latches onto it even while he rests. It’s one of those tricks his brother employs when he’s too sick to get out of bed. As uncooperative as his magic is, Sans entertains the notion of whispering for Grillby using his own flames, though he’s only got a threadbare amount of magic keeping him together. Somehow, it’s burning through a lot to keep his soul going until when or if it finally gives up.

And by gives up, Sans means the heat, but he’s willing to bet it’d give up by shattering like a cheap plate at the meatball and furniture emporium. His brain conjures up the thought of slipping off whatever surface he’s on (the couch, maybe?) and breaking in just the same way. That’d be hilarious and also slightly welcome. He’s tired of being in pain and he’s exhausted from his body being bullshit.

And that’s what this all boils down to. Selfish promises kept because he’s too paranoid to open up to Grillby, and…

There he goes again. He’s gotta stop doing that.

Sans closes his eyes. Might as well, he can’t see shit anyway. He needs to stop thinking, which is probably a good idea anyway since his thought processes just kind of linger on the spaces he likes about Grillby’s body; his neck, his waist, his hands and his thighs. Sans wants to curl his fingers into the flames of his head, to feel them flutter in between his joints and press up against his body.

The last vestiges of heat are burning away.

His soul clenches again, like some horny punishment for his idle thoughts. It’s swollen, heavy and low in his chest. He’s not entirely sure if he’s breathing, but he must be since he’s gasping out. It feels like it’s a poor fruit being squeezed for all it’s worth, the skin too thick to pierce, the juices inside too full. Any more and Sans thinks it’ll pop. The noise he makes is a little high and short for all the effort he put into making it. It’s kind of dumb, just like him.

At least he can tell that Grillby’s relatively near. And probably his brother, which is the only reason why he’s reining it in right now. Sans isn’t quite sure if it’s still the same day he fell asleep on or if it’s the day after. All he knows is that his body hates him, and to be quite honest, the feeling is mutual. If he had the strength he’d tell it to fuck right off.

Ok, he might be a little delirious. His mind isn’t differentiating between hot and cold anymore, just various intensities. The invisible hand around his chest constricts slowly and Sans fights it until he chokes out another soft sound.

He makes the mistake of picturing Grillby’s hands doing that instead and his body reacts like it’s touched a live wire. A soft, pleading sound stuck in his throat, Sans tries to open his eyes again with the hushed words spoken nearby.

_( ………Relief…? )_

God, yeah, he wants relief. It feels like there’s a wound laying low in his soul, bittersweet intensity lingering just on the edge of pain. He’s subjected this torture to himself, and he’s got no one else to blame.

The sound he makes next is more like a choked off sob, and the weight of the warm hand on his back presses in, firm.

His body likes it. His soul rises up towards it, needy and hungry, desperate for the relief it’ll bring. It swells up against the keystone joint in his back where his shoulder blades meet, leaving everything in its wake hot, slick and aroused. Sans swallows against the thick feeling in his throat, at zero mercy to the world.

There’s an odd conversation taking place above him. Something about medication and consent, and he mostly feels out of tune. There’s some small spike of anxiety deep in his subconscious, but it’s swarmed by the noxious heat that fully encompasses him. He leaves his fate to those that keep him, the familiar weight of a warm hand on his back infinitely comforting.

He sinks down low, focused on it, lingering on its sensation. A jarring string of violins or some other instrument like it sounds out, tinny and out of the way. It’s probably the TV. Maybe he’s still on the couch and Grillby’s next to him on the floor, an arm around him with a hand on his back for comfort.

He wants affection so much that Sans huffs out a weary breath like he was just kicked in the ribs instead. He tries to open his eyes, but the light’s intense where he can’t focus. It’s a white light bracketed by purple and blue vignetting, a hazy bloom to his vaguely conscious mind.

He tries to form words, but his mouth doesn’t cooperate. He tries to use magic, to draw it inward, but his joints _burn_ and Sans hisses out a breath of pain. It blooms out like a slow eruption, igniting wherever it lands, forcing a minute ache in the pit of his soul for his hubris. He recalls something from far away that Grillby told him about; that pain wasn’t something that should happen.

“Gri…” he starts, but his voice is too low, the sound shallow and soft. He’s not even sure if he manages anything. His entire world burns.

_( ……… p … a … i … n …? )_

Oh, he knows what that is. That’s the tiniest of fires that make up Grillby’s fingers, whispering against his skull. They curl up close and keep him company, their warmth a bare reminder of cooler, cosier days. That means that Grillby is nearby, has got his hands on him. Sans isn’t alone.

 _“I’m here,”_ Sans seems to hear Grillby say, and the needy throb of his soul dissipates as much as it yearns for him.

_Tell me what you need._

Sans doesn’t stall, but it certainly takes awhile for his body to cooperate. He’s of two minds to give up and submit to unconsciousness, really sleep it off if he can, or just…

Give in.

He doesn’t want kids. That’s the whole point. Heat is one thing, but if he still doesn’t want a family, it won’t… _happen,_ right?

There’s a long silence from one thunderous beat of his soul to the next. It reverberates within him, against his spine. He’s still a mess.

“I…” he rasps, and it takes a long time for him to string together the syllables and sounds needed to push out his wants into the world. “I g.. give up.”

The world seems to swell. He’s in too much agony to pay attention to what’s happening to him. Sans lets his body do what it does best, guided along by a being stronger than him. He sighs out, anxiousness locked in his soul as arms are brought around him, careful as much as they are guiding. He’s not locked in. He’s cocooned.

_He’s safe._

Everything reads like a special brand of music. The notes are there, shifting into gradual colours as he mentally depresses the tabs of his trombone. He hears them click, crack and snap next to his head like a roaring campfire.

He’s brought close. Grillby’s a little bigger than he is, sprawled out to have him lay against him. As feeble as he is, Sans sinks against him, a willing accomplice to draw in all the warmth Grillby’s got to offer him even as his heat blazes out of control. Sans thinks he sees a small sputter of cyan but he doesn’t focus on it.

_“It’s alright.”_

Grillby holds him. His arms enfold Sans like wings, shielding him from the world. His magic’s pulse is an even tempo, and Sans can feel it bud against the side of his face like the small beats of a metronome. If Grillby lets him go, that’s it. He’ll just float away.

 _“I know,”_ the fire monster murmurs, holding him right to his body. The jacket’s still there, but there’s a peek of fire from the top of the zipper where Sans’ head lays. Sans can feel the small needling throb of his soul, ready to burst at a moment’s notice.

Grillby is soothing. He’s careful not to disturb Sans, who lies upon him like he’s a hammock. To be fair, the fire monster’s extremely comfortable, and Sans can’t help it.

 _I can’t do this anymore,_ Sans thinks, because in all honesty, he’s going to break. Anything more, just _one more squeeze of his soul,_ and he’ll just… not exist anymore.

Grillby saves him, bumps his chin against Sans’ skull where it tucks against his throat like it belongs there. Sans can feel the gentle blossom of heat, a _nicer_ heat, seep into his bones. Involuntarily, he makes a soft noise in his throat. It’s almost intelligible.

Grillby’s hands wander. It’s slow and sweet, like he’s mapping every surface of Sans’ spine through his shirt. His thumb braces on every ridge, carefully tracing up a few, then down. It’s easy and slow, sensual in a way that doesn’t make his pubic symphysis throb nor his soul squeeze in painful desperation.

It’s nice.

 _“I’ve got you,”_ Grillby assures him, because he does. He keeps his voice low, a bare crackle warmed by love and devotion. Sans sighs out, feels his ribs push against Grillby’s torso. It’s nice to passively compete for any bare space they share. Grillby just lets it happen and presses Sans a lingering kiss to the top of his head. _“…Feel a knot?”_

Sans’ brain doesn’t quite register what Grillby means, nor what words are. He’s simultaneously worried that his wet soul and tears are going to hurt him, even though it’s been proven time and time again that they won’t. He repeats the words ‘a knot’ in his head a few times before finally rasping them out.

At least, he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell, since his soul takes that moment to slowly constrict where it lies, like it’s trying to get rid of every ounce of fluid trapped in its core.

 _“The worst part,”_ Grillby murmurs, and his thumb affectionately glides down another vertebrae. Sans can’t help but make some kind of muted, barely choked off sound. _“Built up magic is… released.”_

Sans hates it, but god, he must be making a huge mess. He grimaces to himself, trapped in a moment of pure discomfort when a hot shameful wash glides down his ribs. He huffs, dignity lost. It’s not like he had much to begin with.

But still, Grillby holds him.

He’s a gentleman, never bringing it up again, but he murmurs reassurance and gentle praise that Sans is doing great. That generally up until this point it takes a lot longer, so it’s progress. It’s day four of this bullshit and Sans doesn’t think he can stand another, but he weakly nods against Grillby’s chest, dislodging his chin. Grillby adjusts how they’re tangled up in each other.

Sans is reminded of their earlier days, curled up on lazy afternoons together. It’s almost the same. He can feel Grillby’s indulgent smile at the crown of his skull, his kisses. They’re light, airy and soft. Grillby’s fingertips are a gentle burn that he’s grown so fond of. They read the notches of his spine like bumps on an elevator panel.

Time passes, sifting away like grains of sand in a timepiece. Sans shudders out a breath when his soul misbehaves, privately bribing himself that he’ll treat himself after this. Maybe with some nice cream… or chili.

He’s got a lot of magic to burn through, which probably made the heat worse than what was anticipated. He’s surprised, but also relieved that the brunt of it is finally nearing an end.

Eventually, some of Sans’ higher brain functions return to him, mostly because he can now focus on the swirling little caresses Grillby does up and down his back. It coaxes him to relax, though the odd cramps that continue to swirl around in his soul force Sans to tense from time to time.

It constricts like Grillby had said - a twisting, painful knot that gradually eases. It’s slippery, its efforts caught by the towel Sans just now notices curled under his rib cage. It makes things a bit stuffy, but hey, it apparently works. As much as slob Sans is on an everyday basis, he’s not sure how to feel about constantly leaking soul jizz all over his boyfriend during his heat.

Huh.

That’s certainly something he never thought he’d ever think.

“Yeah…” Sans agrees a little belatedly. He tries another deep breath, but it catches when the tightening feeling starts up again. “`Urts,” he complains.

Grillby adjusts his hold on him, but Sans doesn’t feel the pleasant tingling of healing magic start up. Instead, the fire monster’s hands slide around under his arms. Sans hangs a little uselessly when Grillby pulls him away, his arms leaden and uncooperative. He’s still a bit flushed, which springs up all the times when Grillby told him how much he liked the view. Too bad the view Sans sees is a blur of drunken sunlight, otherwise he’d say the same.

Too bad he feels a little like a chastised kitten. Sans’ breath shivers out with a particularly aggressive throb, robbed of Grillby’s comfortable embrace. He can just barely make out Grillby’s gentle expression, hidden under the fires he’s learned to decipher. Even lifted up as he is, at the mercy of gravity and whatever else, Sans feels reassured.

Papyrus is suspiciously quiet, which is the only reason why Sans didn’t notice that he was there. He’s kind of ashamed of that, wrapped up in fuzzy-pained pants-feelings that he’d neglected to check if he and Grillby were truly alone. It’s a good thing Sans’ sensibilities have returned to him, otherwise things would’ve gotten a bit… awkward.

He pops out of Sans’ peripheral with some supplies, as expected. He’s deliberately slow, careful when he stoops with a fresh towel in hand like if he moves too quickly, he’ll startle Sans. Then like some Indiana Jones switch, curls out the old towel for the fresh one under Sans’ ribs. Sans’ ribs don’t at all like that, and he hisses out a breath like it scratched something hard.

“You’re just fine,” Papyrus scolds him, though it’s not with any of his usual snark. What he does is carefully dab at Sans’ sweaty face with an unused corner, suitably concerned as Sans grimaces.

“Mhm,” Sans huffs out, trying not to feel like he’s a burden. “Thanks.”

There’s not a lot he can do or say to that, so Papyrus nods to Grillby, who lays back again with Sans in toe. It’s much easier to bear at this angle, even if the towel is a little intrusive. Thankfully, it’s also bulkier than the previous one, so it’s cushiony and soft to match Grillby’s comfortably warm body.

Sans sinks down, curling just a bit when his soul takes that moment to _clench._ It catches him off guard enough to find the strength to clutch at Grillby, a startled huff escaping him just as his entire body stiffens. It’s not good. It’s not like the limitless ceiling’s heights suddenly crashing to the floor when Grillby healed him.

It’s like the ceiling crushes him, his soul both frantic and lit up with magic too full to contain. It _twists,_ coiling like an angry serpent. He clenches his jaw, trying to bury the agony that pents up behind his teeth to stave off the small cry that tries to break out of his mouth.

He cracks out a bitten off swear. He knows it’s not gonna help, but it’s cathartic in some small way. Anxiously, like if he moves, he’ll break, Sans gradually eases back down to the blossoming heat of Grillby’s body.

It hurts. It’s _agony._ But being close to Grillby, his natural, ambient warmth. It _helps._

Grillby’s hands carefully clasp over his shoulder blades in lieu of his arms, and a gentle flood of comfort soothes over Sans in a wave. It’s not healing magic, but he’ll take it. In fact, he’s not sure why Grillby isn’t providing any more healing. He could sure use the relief. If he had to think about it, Sans would eventually get it. Overfilling his soul with healing magic would just exacerbate the issue and prolong the heat’s discomfort.

Ok, and maybe the reason why Grillby avoids doing so is because Papyrus is here, and Sans came so hard he saw stars the last time Grillby healed him. Still, something to take the edge off would be nice, though the small circling motions on Sans’ spine are infinitely closer to what he wants anyway.

Papyrus does what he does best and keeps busy, eventually leaving to dispose of the used towel and probably to get more food. He announces as such, which makes Grillby’s chest jostle Sans just a little when he chuckles. It’s a soothing sound.

His soul gradually stops tightening like a fist. It takes a long while. Hours, probably. Papyrus is curled up on the floor next to them, holding Sans’ hand. He’s there for him, which is nice. Sans even squeezes back sometimes to show he appreciates it, or when the clenching or his soul turns to fluttering spasms.

He’s exhausted, but what gets him through it is the fact that his brother and Grillby are there for him. They’re there to take care of him, to reassure him with words of encouragement that it’ll all be over soon. That he can have a nice soak (with Grillby’s accompanying grimace), and eat good food, and he’ll be as good as new.

Just a couple more days, if that. This is the last stage. Then Sans can do whatever (or whomever) he wants.

His grin quirks a little, exhausted after a particularly harsh throb. He barely even feels it when Grillby’s hand searches out to test the integrity of the towel. Sans just protests vaguely, the power of the universe weighing him down. He barely feels his brother’s hand holding his own, the pressure soft and almost numb.

 _“That it..?”_ he hears Grillby with surprising clarity. It’s all hopefulness and relief, the first tentative breaths he draws eerily calm after nearly a week of tension. Sans just droops, because he doesn’t have the strength to answer. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to even lift his head.

Satisfied by Sans’ apparent non-answer, Grillby hums, a happy little thing, and pushes a kiss to Sans’ brow. Curls in close. It’s neat to pinpoint the moment, but Sans can’t appreciate how honest it feels.

He knows that somewhere in the back of his head, he’d meant to catalogue the journey through his first heat, but he can’t remember why. Nor how he’d managed to keep control over himself, or if he had at all.

He just inwardly grins to himself, happy and sublime, when Grillby whispers a quiet, _“Love you,”_ to him, along with a _“Good job,”_ for old time’s sake. His hands are warm even when Sans’ body aches with the aftershocks of the heat, but it’s inviting, drawing Sans to curl up closer. Grillby is a really good space heater, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter (+ possible bonus ;u;) and this fic is done!! Please enjoy my shameless comfort and fluff.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans' heat is over, Papyrus makes some breakfast, and Grillby brings over groceries along with a surprise.

It feels like a Saturday morning.

Wherever Sans is, it’s not on the couch, but he’s comfortable. At least, he is right up until he tries to move. His arm doesn’t like that, much less his back, his legs or even the tips of his toes. His body hates him, but at least it’s allowing Sans to move.

One eye opens, followed by the other. He’s in his room, though it’s arguably its cleanest since they moved in. His brother’s work, no doubt. Sans just kind of exists for a moment, the dull sensation in his chest partially detached as he gradually wakes up.

Though his body aches, Sans starts the long haul of getting himself upright. He moves a leg. It protests. He tries to push himself up but his arm ignores him, tingling numbness replacing the sure limb. Like so many other days before this one, Sans lies face down in his bed, inhaling the sharp mountain valley scent of their laundry soap and wondering where he is.

He’s home, plain and simple.

It’s been that way for awhile, safe and easy with friends, family, and the sun smiling down on them all. It’s a good feeling to be trapped somewhere else for a change. Sans has never been one for closed spaces.

He gives it another shot. Whatever he’s aiming for, he misses. Clumsily, his arm gives out shortly after propping up one side. He kind of feels like a newborn. Warm, comfortable, can’t move without strenuous effort, kind of feels like crying… Yeah. That makes sense.

Eventually, a gentle waft of cinnamon makes its way to his nasal aperture. Sans takes a deep breath and blinks a few times as though to clear his senses. The remaining cinnabun rests on a plate on his bedside table alongside a glass of apple juice.

His door’s ajar. The warm honey glow of sunlight from the window in the hall beams bright shafts of light across his floor and into his room. It’s a little cooler now than it had been starting out, thanks to the thunderstorm. The pressure in his head’s almost gone, too.

As he struggles to get up, Sans idly wonders if Grillby left. He wouldn’t blame him. It’s gotta be a drag to constantly watch over him, but that earns him a twinge from his soul as though in reprimand. It feels worn out, starved for energy while also bruised from overworking itself.

Gradually, Sans makes his way upright to the fabled ‘sitting position’.

“It’s your own goddamn fault,” Sans mutters to himself with a wry grin. He rubs over his sternum as though to soothe the ache and speaks more to his soul than to anyone in particular, mostly because the room’s empty.

He looks up, weary but feeling alright. There’s a vague outline of sunlight that tries to inch into his room from the skylight, bright fingertips vying for his attention trapped by his brother’s curtains. They’re even held horizontally with magic, installed just like Papyrus situates things. It pulls an amused chuckle from Sans’ tired throat.

He savours the moment; the bare morning, comfortable and lush with mid-autumn scents and sights. It’s revitalising in a way that Sans just can’t put his finger on, having had so many autumns thus far and he’s still rendered speechless. It’s like the tense silent note just before a piano key is depressed, or the rolling fire in Grillby’s voice when he wants to share something with _just_ him.

Sans’ grin is slightly crooked but that earns him an affectionate _thump_ in his chest, just like old times. He still feels a little off, which Sans is going to blame on the fact that he’s extremely ravenous. He’s grateful for the bun, which he can at least eat with minimal effort. As much as he wants to taste it, when he struggles his way to lean over and reach for the cinnabun, Sans’ magic latches onto it like a vice.

Drawing it in is like being made to have only water and bland things and then suddenly having a punch of flavour. It’s like before when every taste caught him off guard just for not knowing what it was. Sans’ magic pulls it inward, a strain on his senses when he tries to make it last and to savour it. He’s not ill, but his soul strains anyway. It’s always been rather dramatic, after all.

Strength comes back to him in miniature bursts. He takes his time more than usual, his movements slow and uncertain. His hips feel bruised like someone dropped him, though he knows that’s impossible. Grillby’s too careful and even when Papyrus is at his groggiest, he uses magic to keep Sans close by.

Speaking of, Sans hears Papyrus loitering in the hall. It’s hard to miss him when he all but disturbs the shafts of light beaming into Sans’ room. Sans grins to himself, perched on the side of the bed with a lump of blankets haphazardly strewn around him. He’s very much at home in his bed.

“`ey, bro,” he calls out, the strongest he’s felt in a long time. “The storm’s over.”

Papyrus sends him a flat look even as he rounds the corner. He looks half worried, half strung out and tired, like he spent every night worrying over Sans’ dumb ass. Guilt assaults Sans over the look, but he shoves it aside in favour of greeting his brother.

“I should certainly hope so, otherwise Mister Poor Grillby is in for a douse,” he retorts, though his expression softens when just shies from entering Sans’ room.

Sans has none of that. There’s no more pants feelings, just an odd little tingle when Grillby’s name is uttered. He waves for Papyrus to enter and then again when Papyrus approaches the bed. Finally, his brother gets the meaning and leans down, allowing Sans to pull him closer to give him a hug.

“Sorry for the mess, uh…”

He can practically feel Papyrus cringe against his shoulder, but he joins the embrace with gusto. Sans missed it, huffing out a relieved sigh when his soul doesn’t throb with agitation.

“That was by far the most amount of laundry I’ve had to do in the history of ever, for the record. Even more than when we had found that crate of fabric at the dump!!” Papyrus laughs despite himself, tightening the embrace.

“Aww,” Sans murmurs, a tiny burst of euphoria and happiness touching his voice. He’s sympathetic, grimacing so hard he’s about to crack a tooth. He decides to take the opening to escape that Papyrus provided him with. “But I like my cereal shirts. And they’re all my size, too.”

Papyrus eventually draws back to inspect him, appearing relieved when he doesn’t find any wayward stains or goop. Sans’ flush is mostly from embarrassment, but he’ll live. Thanks to the cinnabon, he’s got more energy. Not enough to leave bed on his own, but enough to sit up without help.

Welp. There’s no need to be cagey about it. Papyrus already alluded to the fact that Grillby had gone, which… Sans was hoping that he wouldn’t be. He wonders if that’s in part because he’d been wearing the same thing for nearly a week and the clothes Grillby wears rarely last so long, or simply because he felt that Sans and Papyrus needed time to themselves.

Who knows. Sans can’t help but feel dejected, though.

Thankfully, Papyrus is there to distract him. He sits on his bed, all grins and excitement. Sans wearily shoots him a smile of his own, but it’s crooked like it doesn’t fit right.

“I honestly wasn’t expecting you to be up so early!! But I will cook breakfast for us. It is my duty as your caretaker-slash-brother to provide aid in these…” Papyrus stops as though considering his choice of words very carefully, which makes Sans snicker. _“Difficult_ times.”

Sans lets that slide. He also lets Papyrus pull him up off the bed. Routine as it is, he oddly feels more awake than he’s been in years, but Sans slumps against his brother’s back as he’s carried downstairs.

The air outside his room is remarkably cooler than in his room. The curtains have done nothing to manage the sun’s sweltering heat, though Sans is glad his own is over. There are residual feelings when Papyrus lets Sans down to his feet, small teeters of weakness that makes Sans more wobbly than he normally is. It’s nothing new, but he hasn’t been helped to the kitchen table in awhile. Papyrus helps him without a beat of hesitation and the kitchen chair is managed by the power of fraternal teamwork.

Breakfast is eggs in a basket, which is something Frisk taught Papyrus while Sans wasn’t well, apparently. Papyrus expertly cuts the bread into fitted pieces to make a square bucket and cracks an egg into it, then uses the power of acetylene torches to char the bread and cook the egg. It’s not Sans’ job to tell his brother not to burn down the house. The toast is charred and the egg is barely cooked, but it’s manageable.

Fortunately, the smoke alarm yells at Papyrus and he yells back, saying that “Yes, yes, fine!! Have it your way!!” while beating a towel at it so its horrible beeping song stops trying to shatter all their glassware. In short, it’s a normal Friday morning. If only because the smell of burnt eggs is terrible and lingers for hours, Papyrus opens the windows. Small mercies.

Sans eats without complaint. In all honesty, he had missed the acridity of meals cooked by his brother, and if he was being honest, _anything_ with substantial flavour. Papyrus even gives him coffee with his usual 6 lumps of sugar, syrup flavouring and creamer. It’s like a veritable punch to his magic, frizzling around his bones with all the warm intent of family.

But it’s hard to make small talk when he knows how rough Papyrus has had it the past few days, and Sans isn’t really good at acknowledging the awkwardness. In short, breakfast conversation is strained and aimless. Then it’s quiet.

That is, until Sans takes a breath as though to say something and then abruptly stops. Papyrus looks at him from his seat across the table, a hopeful curiosity in his eyes. Then it changes. Shit, there’s the puppy look. Probably hoping for some scrap of ‘you done good, kiddo’ to make the days’ long awkward fumbling worth it.

Sans does him one better. “Hey,” he says, like the dumb silence hadn’t transpired at all and he knows how to talk like a normal person. “I dunno if I said it, but, uh. I know Grillby helped you out and I wanna say, uh. Thanks. For. Helping me. Y’know.” _While I was writhing in horny agony,_ Sans kind of wants to say, but his brain is merciful and makes him stop talking. “Really.”

Papyrus perks up, a slow grin at his teeth and a slight pink to his cheekbones when Sans knows he’s actually modest about being thanked. It’s kind of funny, but also kind of saddening. Papyrus is a cool guy, a real good brother. Repeating it over and over never makes Sans feel any less strongly about the whole sentiment, so he adds, “Love ya, Paps. I mean it.”

Taken down by sincere gratitude, Papyrus pushes his egg around on his plate and mutters with a grin, “Drink your eggs, Sans.”

“Ok, mom.” Sans knows something is eating Papyrus anyway, but far be it him to dig it out of him. Papyrus usually comes around on his own.

Sure enough, after a moment or twelve, Papyrus slams his hands on the table, startling Sans. “I’m a fraud!!! I didn’t help at all!! Grillby had done most of the brotherly coddling even if he isn’t your brother, and all I did was do the water thing and even then, I-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sans interrupts. His eyes widen as Papyrus’ genuine distress plays out on his face. Far be it him to let his brother think that he was unhelpful. “Dude, you were comforting and helped a lot, don’t sell yourself short. Those curtains really helped. You have no idea how-” Sans flounders, because suddenly he’s sharing intimate details and that’s a whole other chest of awkwardness, “-uh, _intense_ things are when you’re, uh… y’know?”

Papyrus fixes him with a look like he’s not impressed by Sans’ rebuttal, but it’s likely more from the fact that Sans is right and that he feels quite silly.

Sans flushes, embarrassed. “You took care of me, especially in the beginning when I needed it. I know it’s, uh, kinda gross and messy, which isn’t your bag, but…” He shrugs, knows that he’s rambling if only to buy time. “I was really out of it near the end. Don’t recall a lot of stuff through the, uh… agony, but… I felt your hand when you were nearby.” Crap, this is a little too mushy. Sans takes a swig of coffee, thankful that everything doesn’t taste like it’s too much. “So… thanks, buddy. You did awesome, really!”

Papyrus fixes him a perplexed smirk, all while dissecting his breakfast. Quietly, he ruthlessly sniggers, “What are brothers for, if not to help their siblings while they’re struck down by horns even bigger than Fluffybuns’?”

Sans nearly chokes on his drink and grimaces despite himself even as he coughs. That was foul play. Delighted that he got one up on him, Papyrus cackles. He can be a dick sometimes, but Sans loves him anyway. Mercifully, Papyrus hands him a napkin. After such a burn, it’s the least he can do. Although Sans’ face feels hot, the heat’s receded enough that it feels like his usual embarrassed flush.

Papyrus digs in occasionally, but not enough to make Sans too embarrassed. Their breakfast, always, is interrupted by Papyrus leaping up to make more toast, or grabbing more coffee. Their chats are aimless and comfortable.

Sans is more at home than he’s ever been. No wonder the heat crashed him so hard.

“How are you feeling?” Papyrus starts.

Sans levels him with an injured look, mockingly so to express his vague guilt at making his brother worry. “To be honest? Kind of sore and really hungry. Do we have any more waffles?”

“Do we have waffles,” Papyrus echoes, playfully disparaging as he gets to his feet. Frozen waffles are about the only thing he’ll allow premade in their home, which is good because it means Sans will actually eat something that isn’t covered in grease. Except for the one time that he came home to find Sans frying up bacon to make a sandwich out of them. “How many?”

“Two’s fine,” Sans grins from behind his plate. He’s still working on his charred egg basket concoction. “With peanut butter, thanks.”

It goes on like that. Eventually, Sans hears a car pull up, signalling Frisk’s arrival. Sans is busy eating breakfast, not quite sated from burning through all his reserves. Still, Papyrus has his hands busy at trying _not_ to burn something that he doesn’t even hear the knock at the door.

Then again. And again.

Sans watches his brother hum, focused on cooking, so he slinks out of the chair, a waffle in hand. It’s easier now that he’s gotten some food into him. His hips still ache like a bitch and his joints are a little fuzzy like he’s still waking up, but it’s manageable to meander out of the kitchen to get the door. He looks like the gym teacher’s sloppy cousin and he feels just as washed up.

It’s uncommonly quiet on the other side of the door. Usually there’s a bit of commotion, as Frisk is always excited to come over. Sans decides to open the door mid-bite, painting a groggy picture for anyone street-side. There are dark circles under his eyes, his grin is crooked, but he’s not flushed anymore and he’s upright and moving around on his own. To anyone else, it would seem like he’s still sick but Sans honestly feels alright.

Which is why when Grillby stares back at him, a bag of groceries in his arms, it undoes all of Sans’ careful chill in less than three seconds. The previous days’ activities slam back into his memory like a freight train, all his tight little gasps, the winding soul ache, Grillby’s teasing, and the scent of warm cherry wood and spice. Sans tries not to blush like he has some control over it. He doesn’t.

On the street, another car pulls up. Grillby just grins down at him in the faceless way he does, showing Sans how much he’s relieved. His flames branch towards him, singeing the paper bag in his arms.

_“Good morning, Sans. You’re… looking lively.”_

Yeah, Sans is definitely blushing. If the kid wasn’t already scrambling out of the car with excited yelling and running down the path to their house to see him, he would’ve closed the door again. Instead, he finishes his bite, half-frozen in place, his magic betraying the sudden surge of memories by beaming brightly between his joints.

“Heya, man. Just in time for breakfast,” Sans tries to say as coolly as he can with a mouthful of food. His voice betrays him by wavering a little, though, and Grillby’s mouth quirks with a knowing grin.

_“Good to see you… up and about.”_

Frisk manages to run up and sling their arms around Sans’ arm, giving him one their best hugs while they almost bowl him over. He quickly accommodates his balance and averts his eyes from Grillby’s warm smile, ruffling Frisk’s hair with his peanut buttery fingers.

“Hey, small fry, good to see ya again.”

Frisks asks if he’s doing better now, and that they were worried - and by extension so was mom. Sans feels his face heat up even more, but he nods, flashing them an awkward smile and sending Grillby a look as though to silently plead _help._ Thankfully, Grillby is used to ushering Frisk around and gently, wordlessly, nudges them with his arm and chin-nods for them to get inside. The wind’s picked up and the temperature’s low.

Frisk immediately beelines to go to the kitchen and surprises Papyrus, if his startled hoot is anything to go by. Sans just loiters at the door with Grillby, thinking about the days past, his little admission that they pick up where they left off after his heat receded. Grillby’s smile is kind as always, but there’s always that hint of the devil behind it when he knows Sans is playing shy.

 _“How is your brother?”_ he asks politely, his fires quiet enough just for Sans to hear. Despite everything, he’s still shy around children. _“He must be worn out.”_

“He’s got more energy than ever, but… yeah, kinda,” Sans murmurs back. The waffle crunches when he takes another bite, then he holds it up to offer to Grillby’s mouth. “Hungry?”

Grillby blows on it to warm it, toasting it just a fraction and warming the butter. It smells great. He’s the best. _“Not particularly. Brought human food. For Frisk, since they intend on spending the night,”_ he voluntarily supplies. _“Skeleton household’s turn.”_

Oh yeah. Sans had forgotten about that. Thoughtfully, he finishes his waffle, smoked by Grillby’s flames. It always makes his soul jump, pleasant and warm, the taste of him bare on his tongue. He flushes with another racy thought, but this time it’s warranted. He avoids Grillby’s enquiring look when he glances to the kitchen, Papyrus’ voice booming in detail about how he helped his brother.

Sans swallows. Hard. Papyrus might be leaving out key information, but he acts differently outside of family. He’s louder, for one. And two, Sans didn’t realise how much his brother had helped him while he was out of it, making beds, laundry, lugging him around even when he didn’t realise it. He was the reason why he didn’t starve while he was out, and Grillby did a lot too, just… Papyrus did a lot of the behind-the-scenes stuff that makes Sans’ soul squeeze tight with appreciation. And also regret, because Papyrus is bragging to a ten year old.

 _“An invitation…”_ Grillby suddenly says, cutting through Sans’ thoughts like a bullet. He adjusts his hold on the bag of groceries and nods towards the kitchen. _“Perhaps you can come over after… if you feel up to it.”_

A small shiver slips down Sans’ spine. It’s evident that the furnace is on, as Papyrus cranks it when he’s expecting Frisk, but the hidden promise in Grillby’s voice makes his body tingle like he’s on edge.

He’s still a bit nervous that there’s a chance his heat might’ve lingered. He also doesn’t feel it’s fair to leave Papyrus on his own after such a long week of taking care of him. So instead, Sans coaxes the bag from Grillby’s arms to carry it to the kitchen and Grillby lets him. He follows him across the living room, the touch to Sans’ shoulder lingering and warm like an oven-warmed plate. Sans thinks about the shirt on his dresser upstairs and the natural spicy scent that lingers when Grillby’s around.

“Maybe…” Sans says noncommittally, but Grillby knows the tone by now. Maybe tended to mean ‘yes’ when it came to Grillby, after all.

There’s a secret smile on the fire monster’s face the next time Sans glances to Grillby, causing Sans to flush. Grillby has a tendency to pull him to the side as discreetly as possible and does so now, cupping the side of Sans’ face with a warm hand. The touch is as much promise as Grillby’s kisses are, and Sans misses them.

It’s been a long week and even longer since he’s had that heady rush of euphoria tingle up his spine. Grillby leans down, knowing he has mere seconds before Frisk and Papyrus peek their heads out from the kitchen doorway.

Sans can’t help the startled hiccough when Grillby’s mouth touches then lingers against his, tasting him as subtly as the sweetness of wild marshmallows. His soul rushes with a burst of longing, heavy thumps echoing a song starved for affection. His fingers tingle, threatening their hold on the bag of groceries even as Sans’ grip tightens on it. Sans leans into the kiss, wanting just a taste more and left wanting when Grillby pulls away too soon. He’s dizzy in a way that only Grillby makes him feel.

After all, there’s the devil behind those flames. And Sans sure missed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your interest and for leaving such wonderful comments!! I do have a oneshot based off them finally screwing after all the tension but it won't be connected to this fic -- it'll be uploaded separately whenever it gets written.
> 
> I really wanted to write a heatfic of a mind where reproduction/breeding wasn't in the cards. Grillby and Sans are gonna fuck but not right away. ;DDD
> 
> I sincerely hope you loved this fic as much as I loved writing it!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Five Day Flu: Afterhours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566730) by [skerb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb)




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